#the winter king's ward

[cinemaquiles]

Gorgo, de 1961, o "parente britânico" esquecido de Godzilla e King Kong!

#gorgo #gorgo movie #monsters #kajuns #british godzilla #godzilla #Eugène Lourié #Eugene Lourie #Bill Travers #William Sylvester #Vincent Winter #Joseph O'Conor #king kong #Bruce Seton #Martin Benson #Barry Keegan #Maurice Kaufmann #Howard Lang #Basil Dignam #Christopher Rhodes #Dervis Ward #monsterverse #Youtube

[itsphoenix0724]

Can You Kill A God? (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: No one will ever forget why you are Death's queen ever again.

Based on another fic I wrote which you can read here

Warnings: Gore, blood, the reader is a little sinister but I love it, SMUT (unprotected sex, breeding kink?, oral: m and f receiving)

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: I've been really missing Death!Az and Life!Reader recently. Also, I've had an obsession with Get In The Water from Epic the musical and this is what spawned. I did set in Ancient Greece so I did mention a Greek city. Happy New Year!!!

It started as a petty slight. Some stupid mortal king had said they feared Death more than War, so the god had raged a challenge. Your husband doesn’t normally involve himself in other matters, he had no need.

Eris was irrelevant to him.

Of all the other gods he is the only one who was inevitable, who would be permanent despite all odds. Azriel didn’t even feel the need to acknowledge the God of War, but he had started harming your creations, which was unacceptable in his eyes.

The souls had come into the underworld brutalized, they curled into your lap as you wiped their tears with the gossamer of your gown and told you that they had been sent as a message. You shed your own tears as you escorted them to eternal paradise and Death’s eyes went dark with promise as he cupped your jaw. 

Then he prepared for battle. 

You had to return to the overworld soon, the last phases of winter thawing into springtime greenery. He would sort this mess out before you leave his protection realm. Azriel gathered his allies and they outfitted themselves for combat. He took care to strap the armor to your chest, the gauntlets on your arms, and around your calves, kissing his devotion before securing every piece of metal. You did the same to him taking extra care to protect his heart.

The sight of you almost sent him to his knees.

There are still flowers wound through your hair, nightshade and belladonna make a deadly crown, and the golden glow that seems to permanently surround you bounces off the obsidian steel of your armor.

The battle had been bloody and long, it felt as if you’ve been here for days. Your dress was torn, the cloth shredded around your feet. Blood covered your entire front, caked and cracked into your skin. 

You cannot kill a god. 

But that doesn’t make the battle any less gruesome. 

Nothing would touch you thanks to Death looming over your shoulder. Every attack that may have hit you was deflected by your husband and vice-versa until the God of War catches onto this little tactic and baits Azriel by attacking you. Az had jumped in front of you, a wall of shadows blasting the God of War back a few feet at the risk of wounding him. 

But Death had fallen, red blood spilling sickly and sweet onto the fresh spring grass. It reminds you of a splitting pomegranate as the red seeps out and stains the dirt, every god in the field halts their battle and watches 

You fall to your knees in front of him, vines starting to curl around him as your magic begs to erupt from your chest to protect what’s yours. Eris gloats from his spot hovering in the air, laughing at Azriel struggling to breathe around the blood coming up his throat. The thorn vines wrap around Azriel to ward off any who might try to weaken him further as you rise to your feet. 

“Flower,” he wheezes around a cracked rattle in his throat, shaking his head and trying to sit up. You shush him gently pouring golden light into his chest that does nothing. You are not the Goddess of Healing, life will never stop death, so Az will have to heal on his own. War still mocks your shushing, your tears, calling your magic pathetic.

The earth beneath you starts to rumble. 

You are the Goddess of Life, the Goddess of the Earth, the World Shaker, and you will make every God here remember why you are Queen of the Underworld. 

Rising to your feet, the earth grumbles and shudders under the very force of your erratic heartbeat. War made a mistake waging this battle in Sparta, his arrogance will be his downfall. Your entire body shakes with rage as you stare at Eris from his spot in the air. 

“Get on the ground Eris.” Your voice rumbles in time with the splitting of the earth and War widens his eyes at the splintering ground. Yet, his overconfidence keeps him hovering out of your reach.

“Go home, Little Goddess” He drawls, “You’ve been beaten.” he spits at you with venom in his eyes—a dark, dark laugh bubbles out of your chest like molten lava. 

“If you don’t come down here I will collapse every wall in your city, and kill everyone in it.” You glare up at him, and he laughs shaking his head in disbelief. “Don’t believe me?” You quirk a brow and the rise around the city starts to shake. “Tell me God, what happens when every last worshiper of yours is dead?” His eyes widen in fear then. 

Because that is how you kill a god, you force them into the darkness of being forgotten until they waste away like little more than salt in water. 

Faster than a breath thorn-covered vines shoot from the earth and surround War kicking and screaming, golden light begins to glow brightly from your eyes as your fury hauls him to the ground.

 People seem to forget that Death is the calm acceptance of something coming to an end. Life joins this realm wailing its existence to the stars, Life can be a very violent thing.

You will break him beyond repair, you can’t hear the sounds of Eris choking on his blood, the only noise in your head is the dull thumping of a war drum. He fights back with as much power as he can muster, but you’re barely trembling with the effort it takes to hold him there. The sinister in your smile reflects in his shining, terrified eyes. 

How pretty would it be if lilies sprouted from his lungs? 

Someone may be calling your name but you can’t hear anything, the tunnel vision threatening to collapse you entirely. You might not be able to kill him like this but regrowing all of his organs certainly would take some time. Feeling the golden power writhe and wrap around his heart, begging you to let it off its leash and crush, but it’s then that you feel the cooling darkness wrap around your shoulders. Death sweeps his chill gaze over War after rising to his feet. You still hold the line firm, one arm shooting out to block Azriel from any further advancement. The light in your eyes still refuses to dim, but Az wraps a hand around your jaw delicately turning your face toward him. 

“You’ve made your point My Love,” the steady weight of his hand calms the rising heat in your blood. “It’s time to let him go.” Azriel didn’t particularly care if you ripped Eris apart and scattered him to the seas, but he knew the guilt would threaten to drag you into the abyss entirely. The light dims, and you drop your hand. Eris falls to the ground like a puppet dropped from strings, coughing blood like shiny red rubies onto the grass. You’re only looking at Az, the wash of reassurance running over your body as you finally process that he’s whole–that he’s standing. 

He’s alright. 

Death doesn’t deign to even look at War as shadows come around you like dark silk, and you’re back in his realm. He finally sags into your arms as he lets the facade drop, the real pain and exhaustion catching up to him. Az thinks you might call for a medic, but it feels like someone is holding his head underwater. The silk of the sheets feels distant against his skin as your hand strokes his face, and he finally lets his eyes slip closed. 

Azriel sleeps for four days. 

He wakes in your bedroom, your presence absent, but a pitcher of water remains on the bedside table. The armor he’d donned for battle had been stripped from him, replaced by a black chiton that fell loosely around his chest and hips. He chugs half the water in one go as his power reaches out frantically for you, his heart settles when he feels like your golden aura, and he rises to set off looking. 

He finds you beneath an ever-blooming willow tree in Asphodel fields, reading animatedly to a group of children, the golden reeds bellowing in the fresh spring air. They scatter as he leans against the trunk, giggling and laughing as they chase each other into the meadow. You’re overjoyed when you see your husband, throwing his arms around him and crashing his lips to yours. 

“Are you all right?” You mutter, gently pushing back the curtain of black hair that had fallen into his eyes. You’re so delicate with him, Azriel feels his heart skip two beats in his chest. 

“I’m content,” He hums lazily dropping his nose into your hairline, the lingering smell of lilies floods his senses and calms his nerves as it always does. He nudges his nose to your pulse point before biting gently at your fluttering heartbeat. 

“Azriel,” your voice reverberates into his chest, twinning heartbeats thudding together. “You’re still injured.” he continues his exploration of your neck, nipping his displeasure at your attempt to coddle him. Your body shudders as he finds a sensitive point, and you can feel his smug smile at your jugular. 

“Let me worship my Goddess in peace,” he rumbles relishing in the feel of your skin and the golden warmth of the fresh sun. He drops to his knees in the dirt, pressing devotion into the curve of your knee as your back thumps against the bark of the willow. He smirks as flowers bloom around you in time with your bashfulness, red poppies matching the pretty flush on your cheeks. 

“The souls,” You whip your head from side to side as he runs his hands along the sensitive skin of your thighs. He tilts his head in contemplation, hazel eyes reflecting the warmth like molten gold.

You feel his power ripple around you and a blanket of silence covers the area. Everything goes quiet, no birds chirping or animals running through the surrounding forest, even the rustling of the grass in the wind falls silent under his command. 

“No one will bother us now,” Azriel muses, continuing his travels, you squirm under his attention as he climbs higher and higher. 

“You’ve been asleep for four days,” You barely get the words out as he runs his thumb delicately over the apex of your thighs, enjoying the feel of you under his hands. “You should really eat something,” He growls his frustration as he bites a dark mark on the sensitive skin. 

“I’m trying too, if you would stop interrupting me.” His eyes turn almost black as he focuses his attention on your core again, brushing aside the scrap of silk covering you. Az lets out a guttural moan as your scent floods his senses.  He dives in then, feasting on you like he needs it more than air.

He’s wasted precious time with you since he’s been asleep, winter is caving to the sweet spring, but it seems the cold is listening to his prayers and holding on just a little longer. He licks straight to your center, tasting the honeyed sweetness as it floods his mouth. No matter how many centuries you spend together you are always still so responsive to him, you’re twitching and squirming against the tree just about to tumble over that edge when you yank his head away to pull him to his feet. His eyes are glazed over and your slick is dripping down his chin, you haul his mouth to yours tasting yourself on his tongue. All of a sudden his back is against the tree and you sink to your knees before him, tearing at the laces of his pants. 

It seems that you’ve missed him as well. 

You look up at him through batting lashes, and Azriel strokes his hand along your jaw in adoration. You take him in your mouth and Az feels like molten iron has been poured down his spine, white-hot pleasure blinding all of his senses. Death’s knees begin to buckle under Life’s ministrations, the smug look in her eyes adding to the crumbling of his resolve. He has always laid everything he is at your feet, intimacy is no different. You stroke the rest of won’t fit in your mouth in time with the bobbing of your head and he feels weightless. 

Your tongue strokes along a vein on the side of his cock and he explodes almost embarrassingly quickly. It appears that four days had taken more of a toll on him than anticipated. He scoops you into his arms and in a blink you’re in your bedroom. The absurdly large bed stretches across the expanse of the room, the open windows letting in the sun. Azriel tosses you on the cool silk sheets as he stalks on top of you. His lips collide with yours again as he slowly draws one hand up your thigh and draws your underwear down, throwing it somewhere behind him. He thrusts into you in one long motion, and the searing pleasure sends a rumble of power that shakes the very foundation of the palace. 

“Calm Flower,” he whispers as he hits the spot inside of you that threatens to launch you into oblivion. “You’ll bring the walls down around us.” You let out a laugh that bubbles into a moan as he continues his languid drive into you over and over. Eventually, Azriel starts to ram into you as his restraint falters like a splitting thread, toying his fingers over the apex of your thighs with musician’s grace as he bites at your neck. He flips you over at lightning speed, your ass in the air as he drives your further into the mattress, your moans muffling into the pillows as your try to keep up with the relentless tempo. You finally tip over the edge right before Az spills himself inside you, your combined release makes him let out a roar so loud the birds flee from their nests in the trees.

He watches himself spill out of you, thrusting it back inside with two of his fingers.

You whine in overstimulation as he crooks his fingers inside of you, he lets out an amused huff as he gently strokes your shaking thighs. Azriel waves a hand, and you hear the water in the bathtub start to run. You stroke a gentle path through his night-dark hair as he leans into your touch. 

Yes, spring may be coming soon. The time with your husband dwindles to sparse moments in a dying winter fire, but as Az scoops you into his arms to take you to the bath you enjoy every single moment you have left.

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf fanfiction #acotar imagine #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel imagine #azriel shadowsinger #azriel au #acotar fanfiction #acosf #azriel spymaster #azriel smut

[recklessfiction]

The Many Happenings within the Palace

The Queen has given birth to a wolf. Her screams had echoed through the halls, only to be joined, after a moment, by the high, pitiable cries of the animal. He is a good lad, named Roderick by his grandfather. You wonder at the father, who, indeed, it could be, as the king died many years prior and was, decidedly, not a wolf.

A lord from a neighboring kingdom visited in the winter. His manner was jolly and his behavior most cordial. Many a lady had their eye on him, and you could see, through his swagger, that he knew it too. His face did nothing to deter them, as you had perhaps thought a skull might, but the ladies saw no issue with his lack of flesh. Indeed, they seemed to find the empty pits of his eye sockets most appealing.

A witch has put a curse on the princess. She sings, night and day, for hours on end, standing at the window of her boudoir. At first it was pleasant, a sweet voice rising over the city. All would stop to listen, enraptured by the sound of her songs. Then the fighting broke out, among heroes and kings, their minds lost to her voice like she was a siren. War would have broken out had the Queen not stepped in. The princess still sings, but her voice has become a mere croak and painful to hear; you cannot imagine the pain she goes through. The physician says she has done such damage to her throat that she will soon lose the ability to speak entirely if the curse is not reversed. You are still looking for a knight brave enough to go after the witch.

You have been given a quest to gain the favour of a dragon. On paper, he is no king, not even an earl or a lord, however he has claimed much of the land to the West as his own and the people have made no move against it, rather they seem to have accepted their strange new ruler with open arms. The Queen has asked you go to him, present yourself as an emissary of this court and ingratiate yourself with him. It is expected that you will be gone for some time but you have yet to start packing.

As it so happens, the court's jester, Harriett, has just pronounced herself to be Bjorg, the great goddess of Death. She did so during the new wolf-prince's christening, bursting into flame during a comical rendition of Ave Maria. Her face after this was a struggle to look upon, but her quips, though spoken with the voice of a dying old man, still had the court in shambles.

Another man has been lost to the woods, an old farmer just down the road from the Monastery. You saw him standing at the treeline when you went to look into it, but you did not dare approach, not when he was looking at you in that way, and certainly not when you saw the child standing just behind him. You told yourself you would not fall for their tricks, their temptations, again. But their attacks are beginning to move dangerously close to the Abbey. You will need to mention it to the Queen and the Bishop before you leave.

The Lady Carolina has finally presented herself to the court! You had heard that she had arrived perhaps four months ago, a ward of the Queen but no one had seen her. She had arrived in the dead of night and had been hastily brought to her rooms. There has been no concrete word of why she had come, only gossip to which you pay no mind. A fortnight ago, she joined in the anniversary celebration of the King's death. She is just as you thought she might be; lovely and with eyes that, while bright and bewildered, were intelligent and watchful. The rumours of her bright blue feathers and fine golden talons were not amiss either and you found yourself watching her for much of the night. It is a shame you will be gone on your quest before you have another opportunity to be introduced but perhaps when you return, you might inquire as to her health.

#what to do #my writing #medieval #fantasy #romance #weird fiction

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 1.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

a former ward of alicent hightower and aemond's childhood companion, shera stark, returns to king's landing after ten years. ten years after the incident at driftmark that left her and aemond permanently disfigured. after so many years apart, shera and aemond are almost strangers. almost.

a/n: i posted the first two chapters of this story before, but they're being reworked -- so just poof what you know about them out of your mind when reading it now and think of it as a clean slate.

wordcount: 3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage

story playlist

The wind had finally died down that day, the trees somewhat still over the horizon. Their branches still wobbled with some errant breeze, whistling through the wood like a song. 

The window was pushed outward, the crisp air crossing paths with the smell of smoke, whirling and mingling like lost friends. A small fireplace was warming the room as the lady perched on her windowsill, dark copper curls hanging around her like tendrils. Shera took in a deep breath of air— it was crisp and refreshing, pushing away the errant effects of sleepiness. 

Her skin prickled in goosebumps beneath her nightgown as she turned to her bed. A large black mass was snoozing softly still, taking up the majority of the mattress. Slinking over, she snuggled herself close to the giant canine, blowing softly on his muzzle to wake him. Large amber eyes met brown and milky blue, pupils dilating and constricting in tandem, before the wolf let out a sleepy chuff. 

“Wake up, my love,” Shera whispered, fingers digging into his shaggy mane as she scratched just the right spot. “Moongeist, we must start the day.” she hummed. 

The direwolf rolled over onto his back, belly exposed to the chilled air. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, one leg kicking as his companion got the one itch just out of reach of his own claws. 

“Oh, you’re a ham,” Shera mumbled into his fur, peppering him with kisses. “You’re no wolf, you’re a honey glazed ham,” she tickled his belly, causing him to let out an almost laughing whine. “With a side of sweet potatoes and winter chard.” she rolled next to him, snuggling into him like he was a person. Sprawled out from the tip of his outstretched legs, up to his nose, he outmatched Shera’s height by about one and a half feet. Westeros would surely need to watch out if her wolf ever learned to walk on two feet! 

They lazed together for the better part of an hour before Shera called in the maids— but not before donning her veil and choker. The maids would only help dress her from the neck down, and were ushered out after for Shera to do her hair alone. She took in a deep breath as they fastened the corset around her form. 

“May need to lay off the blueberry hand pies , my lady,” one of the maids murmured. “‘Tis getting hard to lace you up.” 

Shera felt a swirling pit in her stomach at the comment— it wasn’t a secret that she was no svelte ermine. She had curves and a bit of extra mass in the softer areas of her body, coupled with scarred stretch marks around her sizable bosom and thighs. “… hm.” she snorted, not wanting to dignify the maid’s comment with a response. This was, unfortunately, the norm. The jabs, the pokes, the insults between sentences— even the serving girls have become brazen, snickering as Shera walked past. She didn’t exactly understand it— mayhaps it was because she could hardly speak to defend herself, mayhaps they think her daft and non-understanding of their less than tactful barbs. 

As normal as it was, it made it no less tiring. “Just… lace it up,” she quipped, a bit too harshly, as she held her thumb and forefinger to her throat at the scratch of pain. “… I have things to attend to…” 

“Yes, my lady.” the maids responded in tandem, squeezing poor Shera into a corset much too tight. 

After they left, Shera picked up a shoe and threw it at the door, startling Moongeist. “Damned ptarmigans… clucking hens… when do they cease?” she groaned, patting the wolf on the head as he, ever dutifully, retrieved her shoe. “I’m… we’re the wolves— they’re supposed to be afraid of me.” she continued, as it usually went. She would whisper and murmur to herself (to Moongeist) while she readied herself. Sitting in front of the open window, her fingers deftly weaved through her auburn locks, working absentmindedly into a braid. She pinned the braid upon her head, glanced at the mirror, then unpinned it. 

It became a back and forth task as she meticulously decided on a hairstyle— she wasn’t usually so vain, but apparently, Prince Jacaerys was arriving for a meeting. She’d spent some time with him the past few moons as they ‘courted’. He was polite, of course, and had grown into himself well since their childhood. But… Shera felt nothing for him, princely charm be damned. And she was increasingly sure he felt the same, more inclined to enjoy the company of Cregan rather than her. 

But that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? To be trapped in a loveless box for titles, for armies and alliances, for oaths— that was fate. And fate… was usually unchanged. Shera oft cursed the Gods, the Old and the New, for weaving her tapestry of life in such a bereft and depressing manner. If she were to look upon it, it’d be dreary and uncouth, not fit to hang upon a wall, destined to rot and mold in a cellar for eternity. 

But what did Shera know of love, anyhow. How could she— for who would love a banshee?

She settled on twin braids that settled upon her back, pinned up into two loops. Adjusting her veil in the mirror and assuring she wasn’t too visible, she made for the door, Moongeist pressed to her. 

The winding halls of Winterfell had become second nature, muscle memory— but her mind wandered, imploring herself to think… Did she remember such paths at the Red Keep? She hoped her memory, if nothing else, would serve her well one day. 

None of the denizens she passed by in the corridors spoke to her, only gave her stiff nods before avoiding her eye line. Was she such an abhorrent sight? Her heels clicked against the stone, fingertips skimming the walls as she stayed close to them, using the familiar winding gait to guide her to the Great Hall. Her stomach grumbled under her tight corset– she hadn’t even had time to break her fast before already being shoved to the dragon’s maw. She heard the whispers of the ‘dashing dragon prince’ arriving early, upon his dragon which was the color of a witch’s brew, green and sprightly. Shera couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she pushed the heavy oaken door to the hall. 

Cregan was there, beard trimmed so as to not be unsightly, and laden in dark aurochs fur. Their ancestral weapon, Ice, was strapped to his back like a second spine, rigid and unyielding. He was faced towards the fire in the hearth, while Jacaerys was to his side, the two already deep in conversation.

The sound of the door opening was as good of an indication of her arrival as she would get, and they both turned to her in tandem. Jacaerys, gallant and princely as ever, rushed to her side, but not before stopping a few paces before, as Moongeist was pressed to her thigh with a wary look in his eye.

“My lady,” Jacaerys exclaimed, flashing his dazzling smile, his brown mop of curls bouncing as he approached, albeit cautiously. “You look radiant as ever.” 

Shera’s brow rose from under her veil– her facial expressions were hardly seen, and she was able to give her unabashed reactions to things quite often. She was woe to master the art of masking, so she simply did not. He called her radiant– an alluring lie if she ever heard one, he couldn’t see her face, how could she possibly be radiant? She presumed his mother had been schooling him in the art of politics. That is what this is, isn’t it? It’s all just… politicking. 

“My prince,” Shera responded softly, giving Moongeist an ever subtle command to sit to the side, allowing Jace to take her arm. She didn’t much like being touched by other people, it made her skin crawl, but she too needed to… continue the charade. “Thank you– you are quite early, I hope I look… presentable.” 

“We were waiting for a bit, Shera,” Cregan commented offhandedly, cracking his knuckles slightly. He was a bit annoyed, she could tell. “But, ladies do take long to get ready, do they not, my prince?” 

“It wasn’t a long wait, no worries,” Jace responded coolly. “But yes, it takes a small army and frequent turning of an hourglass for my mother to finally be ready, I imagine it’s similar for most ladies.”

Ah, yes. As if it doesn’t take Cregan an hour to pick out his furs for the day, pompous ass. And did Jacaerys don himself in that heavy dragonscale plated armor? Doubtful. Shera suppressed the urge to give an indignant huff. “My… deepest apologies,” she murmured. “I do hope my dear brother wasn’t such a terrible conversationalist.”

Cregan snorted as Jace guided Shera to her seat, pushing it in for her. “My mother– she wishes to meet you, of course,” Jacaerys prattled, scooting into the chair next to her (and Cregan). “We are going to go to the Queen for approval for the official betrothal… and subsequent wedding.” 

Shera blinked slowly as she absorbed the information. She expected to have to meet Princess Rhaenyra at some point and for the Queen to become involved in the betrothal– but the wedding? Subsequent? The nail on her pointer finger dug into the nail bed of her thumb idly, picking, picking, picking as she mulled over her next words. “... will the wedding be soon, my prince?” she asked, sneaking a glance at Cregan, who had a glazed over look in his eye.

“... my mother wishes to secure the… union before her ascension, my lady.”

“The King is not yet dead– I don’t understand the rush.” Shera blurted out, her nail sinking deeper into her flesh. She felt like there was some sort of secret she was not a part of, some undisclosed plan that she wasn’t privy to Oh, yes, of course– she was just the pawn, wasn’t she? 

“That is well and true– my grandsire, the King, has been in poorly health for the past few years. It is… only a matter of time.” Jace stammered, trying to regain the upper hand in the conversation. 

“Rhaenyra’s ascension will happen sooner than later, Shera. It is only a wish that you and Jacaerys are well bonded by then, mayhaps even producing an heir.” Cregan interjected. 

She wanted to vomit, she wanted to scream, she wanted to lash out at everyone– she was a vessel, a puppet for a greater vision of Westeros that nobody cared if she was specifically a part of– ‘twas only her luck she was the sister of the Warden of the North, who held an amassing army and ferocity for those he was bidden for. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Warmth spread onto her fingertip and Moongeist shuffled at her feet, a low whine coming from the back of his throat. She felt such a rage come over her for a split second, her vision blurring as she felt the overwhelming need to sink her teeth into someone and make them feel her despair. 

“Okay.” she finally said, her voice sounding far away and small, as if it wasn’t even hers.

Jacaerys and Cregan conversated further while Shera stared off into some small point in the distance until her eyes watered from not blinking, blood pooling and staining against her nails. 

“Thank you. I must break my fast now,” Shera suddenly spoke up, not caring if the two of them were in the middle of a conversation. “We will leave within a fortnight.” 

The journey from the hall back to her room was a blur, she remembers curtsying to Jacaerys and bidding him goodbye and some other innocuous pleasantries. Sitting back at her desk, she tore off her veil in frustration, bracelets and earrings alike jingling. She put her head in her hands, feeling the all too familiar ache of tears building. 

She didn’t want to go— why did she have to be married? Why was it her destiny to be a pawn? To be a wife? Especially to someone who was there. Her throat clenched as she tried to hold back the tears— to no avail. They burned and stung, her already tender demeanor withering. 

Prying her hands away, she looked over her desk. It was strewn with miscellaneous books to which she struggled to read, along with some half-done charcoal sketches of prospective sewing projects. Shera wasn’t known for outbursts, as her quiet and ghostly prefecture was one that stayed in the background of things. But, she felt a roiling in her stomach, wrought over like forged castle steel, molten and aching and hot— it burned in her like a plague, working its way through her and exiting her body in the form of a wail, coupled with her arms sweeping off the contents of her desk to the floor. 

The momentary feeling of anguish subsided as soon as it came and her throat ached from her cry. Her eyes felt heavy as she tried to get up and subsequently failed, sinking to the ground like a discarded rag. Moongeist let out a whine, propping his head under Shera’s arm, having her rest some of her weight upon him.

“I’m pathetic, my love,” she whispered, feeling all the part of a fallen porcelain doll, placated on her bottom upon the floor, legs out in front of her as if she were a child on a playroom floor. “Nothing like the Winter Kings of yore. I’m sorry.” Shera’s thumb rubbed on the wolf’s ear as she wallowed momentarily in self-pity and self-loathing. 

Gathering some strength, she pushed the papers below her desk to the side. The sweeping motion befell something new— no, not new. ‘Twas old, upon inspection. It was a stack of letters, covered in dust now, but neatly tied together with wool twine. Unveiling one, she skimmed it over to the best of her ability.

Dearest Shera, 

It isn’t the same without you here. My head hurts all of the time, I keep bumping into things and I can scarcely write. In fact, I am having Helaena pen this to you right now. She says hello. 

Mother is in shambles, frayed at the ends like your old blue dinner dress. Her and grandsire are constantly whispering and she cries more often. I think she misses you. 

As does Helaena. As do I. Mayhaps even Aegon.

Does your head hurt as well? What do you do to help with the pain? Are you able to walk without bumping into things? 

I hope to hear from you soon. 

Best, 

Aemond Targaryen

That had been the first letter sent to her from King’s Landing— Cregan, to his own dismay, sat down and read it to her after she had spinned herself into a crying fit, sending the maesters into a tizzy as she threatened to reopen the stitches upon her throat. 

In her poppy-addled young mind, she hadn’t recognized that it was not Aemond’s writing or words, but most definitely Helaena’s, as the letter Shera sent back were those of Cregan, and not hers. 

Prince Aemond, 

It is an honor to hear from you. I’m recovering quite well, at the behest of my brother. Winterfell is very different from the South, but I am finally finding my footing here in the cold. 

I have been a wolf at heart this entire time, like my forefathers. 

My ability to walk has been improving, as the maesters here are excellently equipped for such a feat. 

It is my hope that we can both find a sense of normalcy in our lives once more. 

I wish you well. 

Regards,

Shera Stark

She’d hardly remembered when Cregan read it aloud, and she didn’t catch the cold, rigid wording, bereft of any warmth and camaraderie that she would have included. Truth be told, at the time of it being written, Shera couldn’t even hold her own spoon to sip at bone broth, much less walk. 

It was unclear to her still, to this day, why Cregan felt the need to lie about her condition— but it was apparently a well placed one, as the next letter to come was in another tone all together. It was about three moons afterward, and the handwriting was different. It was a bit shaky, but proper and dignified. 

Lady Stark, 

I am most gracious for your reply. It is a balm to the Queen to hear you are doing well. 

Let us both hope we are well on the road to our full recoveries. 

Stay warm.

Signed,

Prince Aemond Targaryen

Shera’s fingers traced over the letter, she could still recognize it as Aemond’s handwriting— but the tone seemed clipped and cold, colder than even Cregan’s letter was. 

There were a few more envelopes in the stack, but if she remembered correctly, there was nothing of substance. Her chest ached occasionally when she thought about it all— did Aemond think of her still? Or was she just a silly footnote in his life? She abhorred to admit to herself, much less anyone else, that she still did. Aemond Targaryen still had a place in her mind, an undeterred host in the recesses of her brain that she couldn’t rid herself of— if she even wanted to. She wondered what he looked like now. Was he finally as tall as Aegon, mayhaps more? Did he finally get his hands upon the book he had been wanting to read? She hoped he spent his days flying upon Vhagar’s back— a gift that he had paid the price for. 

She did as well. But her price wasn’t for Vhagar. It was for Aemond.

Her throat burned and constricted with the threat of tears once more as she pulled herself from the floor, Moongeist’s body pressed to her hip to guide her. Padding to the fireplace, which was nursing a few hot coals and sparse flame, she fed the letters into the fire one by one. The flames grew as they burned, the ink upon the pages fettering into nothing but ash and sickly memory. 

Were they strangers now? 

Does he remember her? 

… why does she still wish to see him? 

A wolf travels south at the behest of one dragon– but her mind upon another.

How sordid.

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #banshees lament #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond x original female character #aemond x ofc #fic: banshee's lament

[thewriterwithnoplan]

THE WINTER KEEP (2/2)

Summary: You have fled the Red Keep, the Greens and Alicent's poison. It is time to play your hand and herald your mother's ascension on a larger scale. You will fly to Winterfell, treat with the Lord Cregan Stark and await your brother. You are weak and a girl, no longer. You are a dragon ready to spill blood to ensure your promises are kept.

[Part 2 to The Highest Tower]

Soulmate AU: Your animal familiar leads you to your soulmate.

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader 

Word Count: 5631

Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, canon divergence, my first time writing for hotd, pretty sure I'm missing something...

Masterlist

Laesuvion had taken to the skies through a hole in the dragon pit. Swift and lethal and stealthy as a white dragon against dark clouds could be. Come morning the whole of Kings Landing would know that you had fled. Come morning the usurper King and his council of snakes would be plotting your demise. You would need every advantage, every inch of distance you could gain before they found the wherewithal to send men after you. The Queen could protect you no longer, your time as her ward had passed. As Laesuvion crested the skies above the Red Keep, and you urged him north, you left just as you had arrived all those years ago. Rhaenyra’s only daughter. Her greatest supporter. Her most loyal weapon.

It took some days to fly north, you rested only once. On the second night of flying, setting down in the swamplands just beyond Greywater Watch. You swaddled yourself in your flying cloak and huddled in a hollow tree as Laesuvion hunted. Sleep came in fitful bursts, each gust of wind and animal sound convincing you that despite your head start from having flown through night and day and night again, the king's loyal men had somehow found you. You awoke around dawn to find Laesuvion’s bulk curved around your tree, his breathing deep and rhythmic in sleep. You crept toward his front claws and the charred mass caged there.

Your first food in some hours, since the day prior when you had polished off the meagre supplies you had smuggled out of the Keep. You tore charred clumps from what might have once been a deer or livestock from a nearby farm. You set these aside in case Laesuvion woke hungry, as you shredded his offering until– There, protected by the cocoon of hardened char, well-cooked meat. You gorged yourself.

You took to the skies an hour later, dehydration your greatest enemy so close to the searing sun. You wrapped your cloak around you, tied yourself firmly to the saddle and tried desperately to catch another snatch of rest. Through that morning, that evening and night, Laesuvion tore through the skies of Westeros.

You landed in the Northlands on the third dawn of your travels. The south gate of Winterfell rose to greet you, a small host of men waiting under its shelf. Dehydrated, exhausted, terrified, you could have wept with joy.

“Holt!” You startled. It was a woman.

“I mean no harm.” You dismounted Laesuvion carefully, moving purposefully to disguise your limb's feeble shakes. At eye level, though separated by a good fifty yards you repeated, “I mean you no harm.”

“Your dragon?” The woman demanded.

The men shifted nervously as Laesuvion gave a chest-deep rumbling purr. “Merely glad to have found our destination.”

“Come forward.”

“To whom do I speak?” You inched forward, Laesuvion nosing at your back.

“Sara Snow.” Up close you found Sara Snow to be very beautiful. With ebony hair twisted in intricate braids and eyelashes so long they caught snowflakes. A true northern beauty, with a sword strapped to her back and a pelt secured to her shoulders.

“I seek an audience with Lord Cregan Stark.”

“He is in a meeting with his men.”

“He will want to speak to me.” You smiled pleasantly, “He owes loyalty to my mother, the Queen.”

“House Stark owes loyalty to King Viserys.” Sara jutted her chin, “No oaths were sworn to his lady-wife.”

“You misunderstand me, Sara Snow. I speak of my mother, the Realms Delight. Queen Rhaenyra to whom Lord Rickon swore fealty.”

The men sent furtive glances to one another. Sara paused and then curtsied. “Forgive me, Princess. The North had not heard word of you for some years now, we feared you had been lost.”

“Ah, I have been kept to the Keep for some time.”

“Winterfell is most honoured to–” Sara turned.

The sound of crunching snow, hurried footsteps, quickened breath. One of Sara’s men toppled to the ground as a dire wolf barrelled through his legs. Pitch black but frosted with snow, it careened toward you. The man giving chase shouted the wolf’s name, skidded around the line of men, and stumbled to a stop mere inches in front of you. In what seemed to be perfect, practised coordination, Laesuvion jammed his snout into your back as the dire wolf danced around his owner's legs. In a heap of limbs, winter cloaks, and riding leathers, you collapsed on the man and fell to the snow.

You wheezed; the air knocked from your lungs. Your limbs shook as you scrambled up, plating a hand on the man's face as leverage.

“Sir.” You hissed; with all the royal poise you could muster. Alicent would be appalled. Your mother would be beyond amused.

“My apologies, lady.” The man grabbed your hips to lift you from him. Mortified you slapped his hands away and fought to your feet. “If you would just let me–”

You struggled, “Unhand me!”

“Here, just–” You planted a knee in his groin. He tried to curl up beneath you.

“Get off me!” You gave him a harsh shove and fumbled to your feet. “How dare–”

Sara Snow launched into raucous laughter. Hand clutching her side as she howled in delight. Her men shuffled as if wondering whether to intervene. Your assailant hobbled to his feet, one handheld protectively over his front, the other outstretched toward you as if to keep you at a distance.

You whirled toward Sara, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Apologies, lady.” The man heaved, his dire wolf prancing about his feet. “It was an honest accident. Shadow has been tense of late.”

“You let your wolf run wild in such a way?” You sneered.

“As wild as you allow your dragon to be.”

As if on cue, Laesuvion pressed the length of his head to your back again. The dire wolf herded his owner.

“Laesuvion?” You turned, pressing your freezing fingers to the scales of his nose. “Lykirī, iōrās aril.” (be calm, stay back).

He huffed and shoved at your hands. You toppled again; this time the man caught you against his chest. Laesuvion shuffled back, his tail swishing through the snow in a great arch. A growl rumbled up his throat as one of Sara’s men tried to approach.

“Ah.” The man smiled down at you in understanding.

You tried shoving at him again, but his grip held firm. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I am a wolf pup or a precious stone, or some covetous thing.”

“You are more precious than both I fear, and certainly something to covet.” He held your forearms to contain your struggle. “I have waited many years to find my Promised. I did not imagine you would be so violent.”

Sara coughed, “Welcome brother. Might I be the first to introduce you to our Princess, daughter of Rhaenyra. She has come from King’s Landing to treat with you.” She sketched a bow, her lips still trembling, “Your Highness, my brother, the Lord Cregan Stark.”

You gaped, your mouth opening and closing. A myriad of emotions warmed your face. Bone deep mortification. The purest delight. Wonderment. Utter confusion. Behind you, the dire wolf, Shadow, ran playfully around Laesuvion. Your dragon moved to face the tiny yipping creature, stealing his warm breath from your back. You shivered the cold striking through you like a physical blow.

“Princess?” Cregan Stark asked softly. “Are you well?”

“I am cold and hungry and tired, and I wish to bathe.” You said in a rush, utterly horrified with yourself.

But your Promised only smiled, “Of course.”

Cregan Stark was a most gracious host. In the hours since your arrival, you had been given quarters in the same hall as that of the Starks. A maid had gone about filling the tub in your rooms with water warmed on the fire, to which she added fragrant oils and sweet-smelling soap. As you bathed the maid returned – Atara, you learned – to ply you with cheeses and fresh bread, soft meats, and stewed root vegetables. Once you had been thoroughly scrubbed and fed, you dressed in the soft night clothes Atara had brought with her and curled up in the thick expanse of blankets atop your bed.

You were allowed to sleep for far longer than you might have suspected. Only being roused by Atara once the sun had well and truly set.

“Your Highness, Lord Stark asks that you join his family for dinner.”

You tumbled out of bed, and over to the dresser where you let her braid back your hair in the northern style. She handed you a thick winter dress that Sara had sent for you to borrow and allowed you to don it yourself. Stepping in only to tighten the taught laces at its back. You delighted in the simple joy of dressing yourself, so used to the Queen’s maids who scrubbed you raw and laced you tightly into dresses all shaded the same insidious green.  

Atara whispered to you as she led you through the halls of Winterfell, “Lord Stark is a good and generous man. He has been Warden of the North for some years now, he is a just leader and kind to those in his employ. It is his uncle, who was his regent, and his power-hungry cousins you must watch.”

“Will they be at dinner?”

“No, they are north and east in Karhold. Though his sister will be present.”

“Sara Snow. She is his sister born? I assumed the Lord was her brother-at-arms, not a true blood relative.”

“Indeed,” Atara corralled you down another cavernous hall. “She is his sister and among his most trusted advisors.”

“Why does she bear the name Snow?”

“It is the surname given to those born out of wedlock in the north.”

“And this is not an issue in the north?”

Atara considered it for a moment, “For some it is. But Lord Stark is a better man than most.”

You wondered if she had been sent to sing his praises or if the people of the north were truly so enamoured with their lord.

“Is he not married?” You asked hesitantly, the thought had not yet crossed your mind.

Atara grinned, “He is not, Your Highness.”

“Nor betrothed?”

“Nor does he have a lover.” She assured. “We servants would know.”

“Thank you, you have been most enlightening.” You smiled as you reached the Stark’s private dining hall, “I will see to myself tonight. Please, enjoy your evening.”

Atara curtsied, “Have a most wonderful night, Your Highness.”

You most certainly would.

The Starks took private dinners in a humble hall. Three places had been set at the far end of the dining table with a generous spread laid out between them. Cregan and Sara looked up from their conversation as you crossed to your seat.

“My apologies, Lord Stark, Lady Snow.” You bowed your head. “I did not mean to keep you waiting.”

Sara snorted into her cup, “Please, Princess, formalities are for the feasting hall and for those whose names you cannot remember.”

“Sister,” Cregan hissed.

You fought a smile, “Forgive me, Sara, I would not have you think I had forgotten your name already.”

“How does the dress fit?”

“Wonderfully,” You swished from side to side, “You are most generous.”

“I have never had a sister,” she said thoughtfully.

Cregan spluttered into his cup. You grinned, “Nor I.”

You thought only briefly of Heleana and her mother and their glittering cage.

Cregan leapt from his seat to pull yours out for you, “Please, ignore my sister, she is overly friendly.”

“Please, ignore my brother,” Sara mocked. “He is overly nervous.”

“Tis not everyday one meets their Promised.” He met your eyes fleetingly.

What a soft demeanour for the Warden of the North, you thought. Though you supposed you had smiled more today than you had in all your years in the Red Keep, so perhaps today was not a good judge of anyone’s character. You allowed him to serve up your plate as Sara kept up a steady stream of conversation. First marvelling at the fit of her dress on you, then the colour of your eyes, your hair in northern braids, your improved state after some well-needed rest.

“Is she not a sight, dear brother?” She teased.

“I apologise for my earlier state of unkempt.” You winced. You had hit the Lord of this castle, your Promised rather hard.

“I thought you looked marvellous.” Cregan argued, then seemed to realise what he’d said and hurried to add, “We have received reports that your dragon has taken to the Wolfswood.”

You exhaled slowly, “Laesuvion flew through day and night twice over to get me here so swiftly. He will be in need of food and rest as much as I.”

“Laesuvion. That is a beautiful name.” He said softly. “We can send meat if you wish?”

“He is a good hunter; he has fed himself since I was ten.”

“Still to have flown so fiercely, with so little rest…”

“It does not do well to deprive a dragon of its hunt. Especially in such times as these.”

Cregan placed his utensils down carefully, “Princess, what has brought you to Winterfell?”

You lowered your fork. Good, time to stop dancing around the subject. From the pocket of your skirt, you withdrew the King’s missive.

“I am not sure how far and fast word has travelled,” You looked to the siblings and frowned. “King Viserys is dead, and Aegon has been crowned in my mother's place. The night of his coronation Queen Alicent gave me this letter for you, Lord Stark, she wishes for us to marry.”

Cregan broke the seal of the King’s letter and read silently.

“There are worse things than to be told to marry ones Promised,” Sara joked lamely. You smiled weakly in the tense silence.

Finally, Cregan folded the letter and turned to you, “Why were you with the Queen, not with your mother on Dragonstone?”

“I have been the Queen’s ward for some nine years now.”

“And are you loyal to her?”

“As a dog is to its owner.”

“They are very loyal in the North,” Sara said.

“I was traded to her as reparations when my brother gorged her son's eye.” You said plainly, “I was her possession, but I remain my mother’s daughter.”

“House Stark swore fealty to Princess Rhaenyra when she was made heir,” Cregan watched you carefully. “There has never been a Stark who has forgotten an oath.”

“I too have made a promise to my mother. I intend to keep it.”

Cregan brandished the letter, “This offers your hand in return for the North’s neutrality in the coming conflict. Is that what you wish?”

“May I speak plainly, my lord?”

“Please.”

“That letter is likely a forgery by the Dowager Queen’s hand. She is mistaken on many fronts, I fear, the least of which was Aegon’s ascension to King. I do not wish to go to war with my kin, but if it becomes inevitable I would rather do so with strong allies and in support of my mother.”

His head tilted, “House Stark is already an ally of your mother.”

“Yes,” You folded your hands on the table. “I should tell you, Lord Stark. My mother has sworn to marry me to my Promised for my service as her spy in the Red Keep.”

“You wish us to marry?”

“I wish to offer you my hand, outside my mother’s promise or the Queen’s demands.” You cleared your throat, and just as you had carefully prepared on your journey here you said, “I have been trained in the ways of the court, I will be of use to you in councils and in handling the affairs of your territory. I am of royal breeding, you will be made Prince-Consort, our children Princes, and Princesses of the realm. I have dragon eggs for their cradles and Valyrian blood for their veins. I would ask only that you allow Laesuvion to stay with me in the North. If not, I shall wait here until such a time as my brother Jacaerys comes to treat with you, that I might return with him to Dragonstone.”

You watched the Lord, his eyes dancing with an unnamed light as he listened to you. “I will need time.”

“Of course, my Lord, speak with your advisors.”

“You misunderstand him, Princess.” Sara grinned.

Cregan smiled, “I will not marry you hastily. I will need to summon my family and prepare a feast. It is a special thing, for those of our station, to be given leave to marry our Promised.”

“I–” You were unsure what you expected. “I suppose it is.”

Sara clapped gleefully, “Shall we call for dessert?”

You wore the soft nightclothes once more as you sat at your vanity and penned your mother a letter.

Mother,

How I have missed you. Know that I have thought of you often and never strayed from my mission nor my loyalty to you.

I have fled King's Landing and taken the Lord Hands life with me. Though the smallfolk have no mind to protest whichever Targaryen collects their taxes, you have many allies in the Red Keep. I have interred a list of those Lords and Ladies who remain loyal to you as well as those I have heard of beyond and some whom we may turn with careful diplomacy.

I am at Winterfell with my Promised, Lord Cregan Stark, whom I will marry in the coming weeks. With your blessing, of course. I await Jacaerys, with news of our family and our strategy. In the meanwhile, I intend to discuss what supplies and men Winterfell may have to offer you.

Mostly I am writing to you because I can. I am overwhelmed with the freedom to do so, to be able to tell you once more how much I love you. I cannot imagine how this week has been for you, know that though we are separated I am your most fierce supporter.

I have had a thought, in my hours here, about how far Winterfell is from the capital. How far we will be if we are forced into battle and bloodshed. Perhaps you might consider sending Joffery here, to mine and my soon-to-be Lord Husband's care.

I hope you are well, Mother. I love you from the very depths of my heart.

You signed the letter with a careful flourish and set it aside. You would ask Atara where you might find a raven-master to have it sent. You touched your fingers to it softly, your first contact with your family in nearly a decade. To tell your mother that you were preparing for marriage and war.

As you blew out your candles and settled into bed, you hoped your mother would like Lord Cregan Stark.

On your fourth morning in Winterfell, you took morning tea with Sara. She had taken lengths to make you comfortable in the days since your arrival, and you took great joy in breaking your fast with her each morning. Today, you spent the early hours humming and haring over the tiny sample cakes you had been sent to taste for the upcoming feast. As you ate, Sara told you all that she could about the castle, the arriving lords, the Stark territory, and their histories.

Northern marriage traditions, you had learned, were not so different from those celebrated at King’s Landing, there would be the exchanging of cloaks and binding words spoken before gods but there would also be a hunt. Women such as yourselves would not be invited but you would find your own fun, Sara assured.

“It is tradition to have the pelts in your quarters and the meats on the feasting table.”

You lifted a citrusy cake between your thumb and forefinger, “Husband and wife share quarters here?”

“Most,” Sara said thoughtfully, “Though I’m sure Cregan would accommodate you if it is different in the south.”

“What happens if their hunt is unsuccessful?”

“I imagine there will be much embarrassment among the North, that we could not bring our Princess quarry for her wedding table.” Sara snatched the half-eaten cake from your hands and winked, “Fear not, Cregan is a good hunter.”

“If he is not,” You smiled fiendishly, “I suppose the two of us will have to find meats for the feast ourselves.”

Sara snorted, “I think my brother would be rather put out at being unable to provide you with a gift on your wedding day. But the look on his face as we return from our own hunt is almost worth it.”

You jolted, “Am I to bring him a gift?”

“You have brought him dragon eggs.”

“For our children.” You argued.

“For his heirs,” She assured, “I think he is already downtrodden at the idea of only being able to bring you fur and meat.”

“I bring only scales and fire.”

“You will be a very warm family.”

“And very well-fed.”

Sara snatched another cake from you, “Only if you keep eating all of these before I get a taste!”

You guffawed. “I am hungry, and they are so tiny!”

“They need be, so you can keep eating.”

“And I shall!”

“Your Highness, Lady Snow,” Atara curtsied as she entered, “Lord Stark has requested your presence in the courtyard.”

“Another lord has arrived?” Sara sank her teeth into another teacake. “Which house does he hail from?”

“No Lord, my Lady.” Atara looked to you uneasily, “A Prince. Of House Targaryen.”

After nearly nine years kept apart by the waters of Blackwater Bay, and three long days separated by your duties, the time had come. You caught your first look at your eldest brother as you left the comfort of the Great Keep and nearly crumpled to the ground. Sara laid a steadying hand at your shoulder as Atara whispered sweet comforts. But nothing could prepare you for the sight laid out in the courtyard.

Jacaerys, with Vermax perched atop the walls of the keep. Jacaerys, with tousled dark hair. Jacaerys, once the awkward boy you followed dutifully, now an emissary of the Queen. Jacaerys, your brother. Jacaerys, your mother’s son.

“Jacaerys!” You ran. Past Sara and Atara, past Cregan and his warning cry. You ran. Almost straight into the end of your brother’s sword. You pulled to a halt, the blade a whisper away from your sternum, “Jacaerys?”

“Sister,” He sneered. “How far you are from your castle.”

“I have escaped.”

“You have been sent as an emissary of the usurper and his cunt-mother.”

“She did not tell you?” Your arms slumped at your side. “Mother sent me as a spy, she and Daemon trusted me to–”

“Her trust was misplaced. You have betrayed us.”

“I have come here to rally the North for our mother’s claim, just as you have.”

“You have come here to better your station.”

“I am a Princess.” You hissed, confused, and insulted.

“You are Princess of nothing, of no house.”

“I am of House Targaryen,” You pressed forward until the tip of his sword tore through the bodice of your dress and blood welled. You turned, held out your hand and gave Cregan a pleading look, he shifted but stayed back. “I am Princess of loyalty, of oaths and duty. I have come to the North to escape the Greens, to tell our mother, the Queen, all that I have discovered these years.”

“Where was loyalty,” Jacaerys shook with rage. “When they dragged us before the Iron Throne and called our mother a whore and our brothers bastards? Where was duty, when Lucerys was nearly stripped of his birthright? Where were you when Laenor died? When Rhaenys flew to our mother's side to tell her of–”

“Our father is dead?” You whispered.

“Your father is Daemon.” He growled under his breath.

You reeled back, “My father is Laenor Velaryon.”

“It is Daemon. He told us so himself when he married Mother.”

“Daemon and mother are married?”

His sword sagged slightly, “The Greens did not tell you? What of Viserys and Aegon?”

“Our grandsire and uncle?”

Jacaerys looked pained, “Our brothers.”

You fell to your knees, shoved your face in your hands and wept. Jacaerys jerked his sword backward and staggered away from you as Cregan rushed to your side.

“Princess?” He wrapped a protective arm over you. “What is the matter?”

“The question of Driftmark’s succession,” Jacaerys stared at you in horror. “Where were you?”

“I did not know!” You sobbed. “I did not know!”

“Otto Hightower said you would not see us, that you felt abandoned and betrayed when Mother gave you to the Greens.”

Cregan pulled you closer to him as Jacaerys inched forward. He growled, “Stand back. You have no enemies among the Starks. Do not make one.”

“I went willingly, for mother, for Lucerys.” You glared up at your brother. “You watched me! I traded my life; you watched me do it!”

“Otto Hightower–”

“Is dead!” You bared your teeth. “I fled King’s Landing, and I killed the man who usurped our mother, and you as her heir. I am loyal, I am steadfast, I am your greatest supporter as heir.”

“Tis true.” Cregan attested. “She has come to the North in support of your mother's claim. She has offered her hand to me, and we have talked much of giving your mother’s children sanctuary here.”

“You are betrothed?” Jacaerys whispered.

“I am.” You said proudly.

Cregan smiled at you softly, “The North is yours, my Prince. So long as my Promised wills it.”

“Sister.” Was all Jacaerys could say. “Sister.”

“Come,” Cregan lifted you to your feet. “My betrothed will catch a cold out here, let us speak inside.”

.

Cregan sat you gently by the fire swaddling you in the great expanse of his cloak. Sara brought tea to your side while your brothers sat at the other end of the room to discuss politics.

“Did you hear?”

Sara blew on her cup, “I heard a lot.”

“Did you hear what he said about my father?”

“That you lost one? Or that…” She pursed her lips.

“That I am Daemon’s bastard.”

“I did.”

“Do you think Cregan heard?” You burrowed into his cloak.

She gave you a secret smile, “Does it matter? You are a Princess, twice over. And Cregan keeps me around, does he not?”

“I only meant…” You turned away. “I fear he may think me liable to follow in my mother’s footsteps.”

“Will you?”

You stared at her, “Cregan has been kind to me, listened to me, protected me – given me more than anyone has ever offered me. And he is my Promised. Why should I stray from him?”

“Then there is no reason to fret.”

“And the King’s Hand?”

“What of him?”

“I killed him.” You half hid your face in your teacup.

“Do you regret it?” Sara asked curiously. “It is no small thing, to kill a man.”

“He has haunted my family for generations. I would do it again.”

Sara shrugged, “Then we will speak no more of it, justice has been served. I’m sure Cregan will more than agree.”

“Will he?”

“He has been forced to make decisions even further North of here, at the wall.” She took a long sip of tea and stared into the flames. “Some even I do not agree with. But we are family, and he is your Promised. So, it does not matter, does it?”

“No.” You stared into your cup. “I suppose not.”

“Princess!” The man in question came over with a charming grin, “Your brother has offered to escort you at our wedding.”

Jacaerys looked at you timidly, “If you will have me, sister.”

You looked first to Cregan who nodded, and then to Jacaerys with a soft smile. “Of course, brother. Nothing would please me more.”

The letter from your mother arrived another four days later. It came to you clutched in Jacaerys’ hand with the seal broken. He had caught the raven just south of Winterfell as he, Cregan and the Northmen returned from the ceremonial hunt.

“I apologise, sister, I have never been accused of being patient.”

You scoffed, “Some things do not change.”

“Indeed,” Jacaerys said rather gravely. “I must ask a small favour of you before I give you this letter. It is on behalf of myself and our mother.”

You straightened, “Of course brother.”

“You will not open it until after you have been blissfully wedded to Lord Stark.” He paused at your dubious look, “Mother has words she wishes to share only after your wedding. Congratulations and such.”

“I suppose that is agreeable.” You took the letter carefully, “Though we require her blessings to move forward.”

“And you have them.” He tapped the letter. “In there. You shall marry your Promised tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

And so, you married him that night.

The Godswood was eerie in the darkness of night. Though lit by the torches of countless Northmen, it felt as if the darkness were reaching cool unnatural fingers toward your procession. Coaxing you, in your red-black Maiden Cloak toward the foot of the weirwood heart tree, where your Lord-Promised, his uncle, and the dire wolf Shadow wait. Jacaerys held your hand tightly as if frightened to let you go. Around you, Lords and honoured guests planted their torches in the snow, lighting the way for you and your brother. The wind whistled through the silence, broken only by the great rumbling in Laesuvion’s chest where he perched on the lip of the keep’s gate.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Called Bennard Stark.

Jacaerys whispered your name, then cleared his throat in embarrassment and announced it proudly, "Daughter of the House Targaryen, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"Cregan, of House Stark,” Your Promised sent you a small secret smile, “Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Who gives her?"

"Jacaerys, of the House Velaryon, who is her brother and Prince." Jacaerys gave your hand a firm squeeze as he gave you to Cregan.

"Princess,” Lord Bennard made an admirable effort to say your name without disdain, “Will you take this man?"

You took Cregan’s large warm hands in your own and smiled, “I take this man.”

Silently, hands joined, you knelt to the cold earth. Around you, the Lords of the North fell to their knees and bowed their heads in deference. Foreheads pressed together, you and Cregan offered silent prayers to the Old Gods. When you stood as one, Sara was there in her uncle's place, a cloak of thick, luscious fur in the silver-grey of House Stark.

You tipped your head back as Cregan fiddled with the ties of your Maiden’s Cloak. You smiled at the sky as he struggled gently against your neck. Finally, it loosened, there was a brief shock of cold and then there was wonderous heat, the furred collar tickling your chin. You look to Cregan then, donned in his colours, wrapped in his protection. You smile softly at one another and lean into a soft kiss.

The black sky lights up with swashes of red as Laesuvion spits fire at the stars.

All at once sound returns to the Godswood as the witnesses of your nuptials cheer, chief among them is your brother. You laugh in delight as Cregan grips your cheeks and plants another kiss on your lips. Shadow yips at your heels as your husband sweeps you up into his arms and carries you toward the Great Hall.

He whispers sweet promises for your future, and you have never been more grateful to know how fiercely a Stark is at keeping their word.

It was the wolf’s hour when the festivities swelled through the Great Hall and you found yourself drawn to a quiet corner. You excused yourself from your husband by pressing a chaste kiss to his temple. He smiled softly at you and trailed his fingers from yours as you walked toward the hearth roaring at the far end of the hall. You pulled your mother's letter from your pocket and pressed your fingers against her seal as if you could fuse the two halves back into a whole. She and Jacaerys would not mind, you were sure, it was your wedding day after all, and you craved an inch of your mother’s presence.

You unfolded her letter and read:

My dearest girl,

I have never doubted you and I do not do so now.

You have my blessings. Marry the Lord Cregan Stark and take joy in your Promised. I will entrust Baela and Rhaena to bring your young brothers into your care.

You have served me well, which is why I write to you now, though my heart tells me to spare you.

Aemond has taken Lucerys’ life. War has come.

You looked up gripping the letter until your fingers drew indents in the paper and made desperate eye contact with Jacaerys’ pained face. A sound halfway between a scream and a sob tore from your throat, drowned by the thundering roar of Laesuvion overhead. Cregan stood, fighting to stumble his way toward you, as the walls of Winterfell rattled with your fury.

Nine years you had spent in the Red Keep, learning your enemies inside and out. Carefully ushering pieces across a board too vast for you to comprehend, hoping desperately you could stop a war conceived long before you. It all narrowed to this moment. Wrapped in the cloak of your husband’s house, framed by the hearth fire, as your dragon raged above.

Your Brother. Your Dragon. Your Husband.

By Blood. By Fire. By the Old God’s Promise.

You would avenge your brother and bring war to the Greens.

#cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon #prince jacaerys #lucerys velaryon #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #queen alicent #alicent hightower #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #otto hightower #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #soulmate au

[sky-kiss]

A/N: Blatant Asmodeus propaganda. After betraying Raphael in the HoH to save Baldur's Gate, they steal his corpse back from Meph and entreat Asmodeus. Also. A Dracula gif. To push my agenda.

Raph x GN!Tav: A Pact Struck, A Contract Sealed

Ages have passed, and empires have risen and fallen since a mortal last attempted to bind his Aspect. Asmodeus feels a tickling in the back of his psyche, barely a drag at his near-infinite energy. His awareness fragments and then shifts, searching for the source of the petition. The words come second, the feelings first. 

Desperation. Pain. A soul-deep grief. Physical hurt, too, but it's a stinging afterthought. The Lord of the Nine Hells cocks his head to the side, eyes closed. They are petitioning his avatar. They whisper in the darkness. A chill winter breeze howls around them, bowing the branches of dead trees. How fitting, he thinks, that this little creature should surround itself with such things. They wear death like a shroud. 

He is not in the habit of entertaining such low-hanging fruit…but there is a touch of something in their desperation, a sweetness Asmodeus has not sampled in many years. It amuses him. And he is not above indulging his amusement—the Archdevil motions with his right hand, passing a fraction of his awareness to the Aspect. The darkness of his throne room fades in favor of a moonlit night—the sickly sweet tang of blood colors the air. 

Ah, and there is his petitioner. They sit with their back pressed to an ancient white birch, skin badly frostbitten. Cania's stink lingers across their skin, brimstone and hellfire marrying together. They curl around their prize, clutching a badly mangled figure to their chest. Asmodeus hums, kneeling. Its wings are broken. So many bones shattered. 

"Tell me, child." His voice is low and pleasant in the chill air, a warmth chasing along the baritone. "Do you know whose name you have called? The attention you would court?" 

They nod, grip tightening on their prince. Tears cut through the mess of dirt on their skin. Crying, he thinks, and what a charming little oddity. Who shed tears for a devil? How curious. How delightful. "Lord Asmodeus, Prince of the Darkness. Lord of Lies." 

"Indeed, I am. Pretty titles, aren't they?" 

"I thought…" they catch themselves. Asmodeus notes the tremor in their right hand and the way they struggle to stay upright. His presence is overpowering at the best of times; the wounded little creature is fighting valiantly not to succumb to darkness, mind breaking under the weight of his Aspect's attention.

"My apologies, little one. It has been some since I treated with your kind. Allow me." He reaches out with one clawed hand, tapping his nail to the center of their forehead. The ward will protect them from the worst of it. They blink at him. "Continue, please." 

Their right hand tightens in the corpse's dark hair. "My Lord, I had hoped to make a deal with you. I know…I am beneath your attention…"

"Most are. The benefit of being a god, I suppose. But it has never stopped me in the past." 

Despite themself, they smile. Shuffling, the adventurer turns their burden outwards. Though badly burned, cheekbones shattered, he recognizes the features—so much of the father in the son, an agony to both parties. Mephistopheles' boy stares blankly forward—a hollow shell of himself, a waste of potential.  

It pains the Prince to see so promising a resource wasted. 

"I made a mistake. I…" they swallow. "There was something that had to be done. And it came at a cost. Raphael…” 

"The boy is known to me, child. If I may?" They hesitate. Asmodeus forces his temper down, the air around them heating. He is a god and not in the habit of being denied. But the Hero of Baldur's Gate relents, shifting their burden into his arms. The Lord of the Ninth cups his hand over the pretender-king's mouth, his forehead. Asmodeus shuts his eyes. "Such a waste." 

"Can you help him?"

"Do you doubt me, little one?" They shift back, dropping their eyes at the sharpness of his tone—a warning, barely veiled. "Mephistopheles has devoured that which he gave—the infernal. The mortal soul…is uncontested. Lost somewhere in Avernus. It could be located…for a price."

"Anything." 

Asmodeus chuckles. He is not ignorant of the sudden rush of color in the little creature's cheeks or how the sound makes them avert their eyes. This guise is pleasant, after all, tall and angular and dark. The wind catches in the blackness of his hair, the long strands falling well below his shoulders. "How dearly naive. I've half a mind to take advantage of such generosity." They shiver under the force of his stare, reality undoubtedly going dark around the edges. He hums. "But…the alternative could prove a more pleasurable distraction still." 

The Lord of the Ninth stands, holding out his hand. The hero, Tav, sets their palm in his. He helps them to their feet, settling his other hand on their shoulders. So close, he can feel the weight of their exhaustion and desperation rolling off them, an ambrosia. The depth of their affection for the boy-king. Interesting and useful. Asmodeus touches their cheek. 

"I will treat with you, little one, and more fairly than I ought. Your dear one's potential: a few more centuries, a stern hand, and Raphael might have made a powerful piece on the board. His sire is…" Asmodeus tapped his chin. "Increasingly irrelevant. Immutable and tiresome." 

Tav stares up at him, such a little thing. And there is potential there, too, the ability to warp and mold this boy-king into something suitable to his grand design. He touches their cheek with a claw. "I will give the means to locate Raphael's soul. In retrieving it, you will prove your worth and dedication. I have no use for the faint of heart. Is this clear?" 

"Yes, my Lord." 

"Clever pet, very clever." He smiles, chucking them under the chin. "You bring the boy to my court in Nessus, where he shall be given the means to decide his fate. Is that clear?" 

"Yes."

What an amusing twist of fate. He bends, collecting the Prince's mangled body in his arms. Tav looks ready to protest, to fight for their dear one (and again, how delightful; Asmodeus cannot help but feel charmed), only to remember what precisely stands before them: a god in truth, the Lord of all the Nine Hells. Asmodeus smiles at them, bowing his head. "I shall keep him for you, little one. You have my oath. Collect his soul, and we will meet again." 

He leaves them without another word, a touch of the dramatic, a hint of mystery to whet their palette. Asmodeus inspects the corpse in his arm. 

Sweet Prince, broken and bloodied. 

Asmodeus will make him whole again. 

#bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #d & d asmodeus #asmodeus #my writing #bg3 fanfiction #longfic #by tumblr standards #Tav: i sacrificed my loved for the greater good #Asmodeus: Cool story fam would you like to go on a quest to get him back? We stan some love. Like. For my own gain but. #raphael x durge #Gonna fight the desire to make this a whole ass story lol

[treeroutes]

what's up ! non-exhaustive list of stories featuring weird plants :

The Day of the Triffids, John Wyndham

The Night of the Triffids, Simon Clark

In the Tall Grass, Stephen King and Joe Hill

The Boats of the 'Glen Carrig', William Hope Hodgson

The Man Whom the Trees Loved, Algernon Blackwood

The Red Tree, Caitlín R. Kiernan

Annihilation, Jeff VanderMeer

The Willows, Algernon Blackwood

The Nature of Balance, Tim Lebbon

'Bloom', John Langan

The Ruins, Scott Smith

The Wise Friend, Ramsey Campbell

'The Green Man of Freetown', The Envious Nothing : A Collection of Literary Ruins, Curtis M. Lawson

The Beauty, Aliya Whiteley

The Ash-Tree, M.R. James

Canavan's Backyard, J.P. Brennan

Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Jack Finney

The Hollow Places, T. Kingfisher

'Reaching for Ruins', Crow Shine, Alan Baxter

'Vortex of Horror', Gaylord Sabatini

Hothouse, Brian W. Aldiss

Vaster than Empires and More Slow, Ursula K. Le Guin

Odd Attachment, Ian M. Banks

Deathworld #1, Harry Harrison

The Bridge, John Skipp and Craig Spector

'The Garden of Paris', Eric Williams

Apartment Building E, Malachi King

The Seed from the Sepulchre, Clark Ashton Smith

Rappaccini's Daughter, Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Nursery, Lewis Mallory

The Other Side of the Mountain, Michel Bernanos

The Vegetarian, Han Kang

Sisyphean, Dempow Torishima

The Root Witch, Debra Castaneda

Semiosis, Sue Burke

The Wolf in Winter, Charlie Parker #12, John Connolly

Perennials, Bryce Gibson

Relic, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

Gwen, in Green, Hugh Zachary

The Voice in the Night, William Hope Hodgson

Ordinary Horror, David Searcy

The Family Tree, Sheri S. Tepper

The Book of Koli, Rampart Trilogy #1, M.R. Carey

Seeders, A.J. Colucci

Concrete Jungle, Brett McBean

The Plant, Stephen King

Anthologies/collections :

The Roots of Evil: Weird Stories of Supernatural Plants, edited by Michel Parry

Chlorophobia: An Eco-Horror Anthology, edited by A.R. Ward

Roots of Evil: Beyond the Secret Life of Plants, edited by Carlos Cassaba

The Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling

Sylvan Dread: Tales of Pastoral Darkness, Richard Gavin

Evil Roots: Killer Tales of the Botanical Gothic, edited by Daisy Butcher

Weird Woods: Tales From the Haunted Forests of Britain, edited by John Miller

'But fungi aren't plants' :

The Fungus, Harry Adam Knight

Growing Things and Other Stories, Paul Tremblay

The Girl with All the Gifts, M.R. Carey

Mexican Gothic, Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Fruiting Bodies, and Other Fungi, Brian Lumley

'The Black Mould', The Age of Decayed Futurity, Mark Samuels

What Moves the Dead, T. Kingfisher

The House Without a Summer, DeAnna Knippling

Mungwort, James Noll

Fungi, edited by Orrin Grey and Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Trouble with Lichen, John Wyndham

Notes :

all links lead to the goodreads page of the book, mostly because i like to look at book cover art ;

list features authors/books that i love (T. Kingfisher, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Ursula K. Le Guin, the collections from the British Library Tales of the Weird, etc.), but also a few that i don't like and some that i have not yet read ;

if upon seeing that list the first novel you check out is by Stephen King's you have not understood the assignment ;

not all of those are strictly horror stories, some are 100% science fiction (Brian W. Aldiss' Hothouse for instance).

#text #ramblings #plant tag #botanical horror #last time i posted a list of non-fiction books on the topic. time for some variety

[ramp-it-up]

To Renounce and to Claim

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced! Reader

Summary: A world where you and Bucky can be happy is seemingly only what dreams are made of. Until you complete your mission.

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. S MUT! Read at your own risk. Curate your own experience. Pining, low self esteem, two idiots in love, Bucky in Wakanda, the White Wolf, skinny dipping, eye fucking, sex in public, sex in a river, loss of "virginity", size kink, pleasurable pain with sex, raw sex, oral sex, pulling out, cum play. Feelings of loss, (the death of T'Challa is implied) implied loss of child, feelings of revenge. Google translate Hausa and Russian.

Not Beta’d. All errors my own.

A/N: This is the second in the Bucky Barnes and the Summer Soldier series. White Wolf Bucky, liberties taken with the MCU cannon and timeline. The following terms are from google translate in Hausa: Masoyi- my love; ina son ku- I love you; ina son ku kuma- I love you too. Kulkoka- Doll in Russian. Other terms defined in text.

As always, reblog if you like it!

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

Wakanda, 2017

The first time you saw Bucky Barnes, you wanted to destroy him.

You, and everyone you knew, thought that he’d assassinated your king, T’Chaka.

The pictures of the masked metal-armed man which was circulated among the Dora were mesmerizing to you. The blue eyes above the black mask seemed to stare into your soul. They were menacing, determined, yet with a hint of something else that had you transfixed.

You kept your eyes on the images long past the ending of the briefing and you were still seated with the holo-pad when everyone else stood to go.

When Okoye called for you, the other Doras quirked their mouths, the loudest their merriment would go in the mixed company of civilians, royalty, and military.

Zola confronted you about it months later, when Barnes was granted asylum in Wakanda.

“I want to talk to you about your feelings for the Winter Soldier.”

You stared at your former Captain, incredulous.

Bast, this woman did not forget a thing.

“I know not of which you speak, Mistress. I was studying his photos to see if I could spot a weakness, so as to kill him easily. Now that he has the king’s protection, I will follow orders.”

You kept your posture rigid and eyes straight ahead as she regarded you. Your training was over, but she knew you better than your mother in the river valley; you’d certainly been with her longer.

“That is the correct answer, child.”

You did not dare mention that you had not been a child for years. You kept your disrespect in your head. Not that it mattered.

“I know what you are thinking. That you are a full grown woman, a warrior. But if you do not want to put all of that in jeopardy, you will be careful. Do not let him into your head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You should have listened better, for after he arrived, the Winter Soldier was not only in your head; he was in your heart. The chaos a smile from James Barnes could create inside you would cause your father to send you to the Jabari if you were still his ward.

You chilled Bucky to the bone from the first moment he laid eyes on you; you were so regal and so strong. You were different than any other human he’d ever met.

The second he introduced himself and your beautiful lips tilted into a frown and said, “What by Bast, is a Bucky?” you were firmly entrenched in his soul.

Neither of you felt you could be honest, you because of duty and he because he felt like an incomplete shadow of a man. Bucky had a lot of work to do. And he set about the work of healing, mentally and physically with a singular focus. Becoming worthy of you was one of his primary goals and you didn’t realize it.

The day Wakanda celebrated James Barnes and gave him a new name was the beginning of the end.

For the better part of the previous year, James Barnes had been just a man. A man that you squared off with when he first arrived, a man that you watched with pity as he broke down, then listened to with sympathy, talked to with candor, trained with intensity, and eventually broke bread with trust.

Now that man was your abokin kirki, your good friend. And also the White Wolf, practically a member of the royal family.

And, like the stealthiest of adversaries, the romantic feelings caught up to you quickly and without warning. You were astonished at how you felt when you saw the way that he looked at Nareema during the Royal celebration for him. You were devastated that he could look at another in that way and more than that, disappointed in yourself.

The fact that you’d fallen for your friend was something that you vowed never to admit or act upon. Sacrifice was your duty. Your feelings didn’t matter even if they were requited. Barnes was healing, and thus did not have time to focus on frivolous emotion.

Your job, as commanded by T'Challa, was to assist him through this period, and bid him goodbye when the time came.

What you purposefully ignored was how he had acted toward you. James sought you out, how he waited for you to come back from missions and training exercises, always with your favorite dishes prepared. Cooking was a hobby that he had undertaken to help calm his mind. And he was quite good at it.

You also disregarded the way Bucky looked at you, the way his eyes changed when you were in full combat gear, and the way his bow deepened as you walked by.

Or rather, you only thought about it when you were alone in your bed at night.

You should never have taken him to your favorite spot along the river the day after the celebration and allowed him to skinny dip with you. You told yourself it was just a private celebration between comrades; it was common among friends of the River Tribe, males and females naked before one another with no illicit thought. But this was different.

The way that you and James stared at each other from opposite banks as you lay in the sun after frolicking like children was dangerous. Your eyes avoided his, but you drank the rest of him in, from the new arm, to the scars on his chest, to the water drops dripping down his skin onto the river bank. His large cock was at rest, but it was long and thick, and you could imagine what it would be like if it were awakened.

You stared innocently at his manhood while something inside you alighted.

James’ eyes were upon you, from your captivating eyes, to those alluring lips, to the water running in rivulets between your beautiful breasts. He’d always admired your body, remembering every curve and toned muscle late at night and early in the morning when he was alone. The lust inside of him wanted you, but so did the love.

His eyes sought out yours, and when you finally returned his gaze, he guessed that perhaps you shared his feelings. Sensing his awareness, you again looked at his body, studying him as if he were predator, or prey.

Your boldness was alluring, and the fact that you were sitting, legs akimbo, so that he could clearly see the folds made Bucky feel the need to go into the river again to hide his arousal.

You joined him without thinking, your heart trying to break free from your ribs. You were afraid. For the first time, you felt truly afraid as your instinct drew you closer to him.

James’ hair was in his eyes, similar to the first time you saw him in those pictures all those months ago. And yet it was different this time. This time you knew that he would be your undoing.

You reached up to smooth his hair back, and he grabbed your wrist, pulling you close to him, your nipples conducting electricity with his wet skin and his cock pounding on your belly.

“Bari in tafi James. Let me go.”

“Da gaske kike so na? Do you really want me to?”

James pulled your hand to his mouth, his lips grazing your palm and up your arm. Your other hand flew up to strike him and he caught it with his vibranium one and twisted it behind you.

You were shocked, but not at him; you were surprised at your reaction. You could have easily gotten out of his hold, you were a skilled fighter.

But you didn’t want to.

“Do you mean to take me like some common karuwa?”

James spoke as his satin lips tasted your skin.

“Stop fighting the inevitable. You know that I hold you in the highest regard. You are not a whore, you are masoyi.”

James’ mouth had reached your shoulder and as he spoke you turned your head toward him as you whispered, terrified.

“You do not mean th-”

Bucky cut you off with his mouth upon yours. You whimpered in his grip and yielded when his tongue insisted entry to meet yours.

You stood in the river, James Barnes’ fingers massaging your scalp, drowning in his kiss. You moved closer to him, throwing your arms up to caress the muscles in his back, your fingers following the traces of water down his torso.

When the kiss was over, your head was spinning.

“What is it you want, soyayya ta? If I have offended you, I will leave Wakanda and never return. I-”

This time you cut him off with a kiss of your own, jumping up and wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding against his cock which was trapped between your core and his belly. James’ hands cupped your ass and as he did so, he groaned. He’d wanted to touch you this way as soon as he saw you, but he’d never dared. He respected you too much.

This time when you separated, you gave him direction.

“The rocks over there on the river bank.”

You pointed behind him to where he lay moments before.

“There. Take me James, over there.”

James turned around in the water, careful not to let the weakness he felt for you, nor the river current cause him to lose his footing. When he made it to the riverbank he deposited you gently on the sun-warmed rocks.

You leaned up on your elbows as James remained half in the water looking up into your eyes.

“Do you really want me James?”

He nodded.

“I do. More than just about anything.”

He picked up your hand and kissed your palm again.

“I have dreamed of this for so long. Tell me that you want me to, masoyi.”

You nodded.

“I want you, James. Ina son ku.”

Bucky beamed.

“Ina son ku kuma.”

And just like that, you were promised to each other, on the banks of your river beneath the Wakandan sun.

You kissed again, the act feeling like a sacrament, heating both of you beyond inhibition. His mouth, his hands, even his eyes on you were alerting all of your senses, because he was everywhere, and all at once. Your hands moved to keep up with him, your ardor overtaking you while you experienced his. Everywhere he touched, bit, suckled and stroked built the fires within you.

Bucky’s hand found your clit and teased it briefly before plunging a thick finger tip inside you. You bit your lip as you wantonly moved your hips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for a long time, James. Need you.”

“You’ve no idea how much I want to be with you, too, kulkoka, but I don’t want to hurt you…”

James’ flesh hand was moving, stroking your walls as if he owned you, but your face heated at the knowledge of what he meant.

One night around the fire, he let you get drunk on some Border Tribe wine and you’d told him that you’d never been with a man. Not that you were a virgin, whatever that meant, but that sex with a man was something you hadn’t done.

Now you boldly stared at him in his mountain-ice blue eyes.

“I am a warrior James. I can handle it.”

James smirked and tilted his head as his fingers sank into your silken folds, readying you for his intrusion.

“Is that so?”

“Y-yes. I want you inside me…”

Your head lolled back on your shoulders, your shut eyelids glowing red with the sun.

“Mmmmmm, I want that too, Doll.. but I need to see you cum. Right now.”

James climbed down your body, pulling your thighs to the end of the rocks as he went. Your ass ended up in his hands and you leaned up on your elbows to watch him work. You spread your legs for him as his head dipped to your cunt.

James obtained eye contact as he delicately licked your slit from top to bottom and then stopped, watching as your eye opened, blazing as you silently demanded more by pushing his head down harder.

“Eat your meal, Sargent.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

You never let him forget that you outranked him, but he saucily winked as he went down and let his smile curl into your wetness.

As Bucky held you in two hands like a bowl and ate you like a man starved, you pulled his hair, which only spurred him on more. He would lick and then look at your pussy, pause, look you in the eyes, and then suck your clit until you were seeing stars. He continued until he could feel you clenching on his tongue. He suckled you and you trembled at how his lips looked wrapped around you. You squirmed until he had to hold you down so you couldn’t run from your orgasm.

“Give it to me. Now.”

Although you outranked him, your body obeyed his command.

You gasped as your mouth opened into a silent “O”, but you eventually didn’t care as you let out a wail with your climax.

Bucku suckled you through it, drawing out more pleasure and grinning when your pulses subsided.

When you were cognizant again, you reached for his member.

James Barnes was a model of a man, long and girthy, you could barely close your fist around him. His large glistening head projected out of the foreskin of his warm, thick and tan shaft. He felt so good in your grip, the veins that weaved around him making you crave that texture inside you. You had the curious urge to take his large balls into your mouth as your hand caressed him.

The effect of your action upon him was lost on you until you heard a groan, and you tore your eyes away from his glorious manhood to look up.

He was beautiful, looking at you with hooded eyes, hands on your thighs as he let you explore him, but obviously holding back. You could see his muscles tense as if ready to spring. With that knowledge, you leaned back as he gathered your thighs into his large hands. You knew that your arousal was leaking onto the rocks and that was confirmed at the way James looked between your legs and licked his lips.

“Take me James, I’m yours.”

“Be certain of what you’re saying, Doll.”

James lifted your leg to his shoulder and kissed from your ankle to your knee, causing you to shiver, then repeated the action with your other one. He then placed his hands on your waist as he moved close, the tip of his cock slotting into our wet, pulsing hole.

You whined as James stayed still, questioning you with his eyes.

“Please. James, I need you.”

Bucky swallowed and nodded, looking almost afraid.

“I got you, masoyi.”

Slowly, James moved forward, pushing inside you until you began to whimper. He stopped, not wanting to hurt you.

You never expected this sensation, the burning, the stretch, but you knew you were not ready for it to end.

You nodded up at him.

“More.”

You remembered your regulation exercises and used them to relax. James’s cock felt so damn good, but it was a lot to take. He was ruining you from any other feeling and could tell when he looked into your lust blown eyes. His gaze roamed your entire body to take in this moment forever and to keep himself calm. He wanted to take you roughly and immediately, but he loved you too much to ever hurt you.

You moaned as the pleasure from him filling you began to overtake the pain. When he was finally seated as full as he could, passion overtook you and you began to move.

James grabbed you harder to still your hips, trying to hold back.

“I want you to fuck me James!”

With that Bucky growled and climbed up on the rock, knees giving leverage to his hips, which snapped into yours once and stopped when you yelped.

“Easy Doll, don’t want to… damn…you feel so fucking good… so right… hmmm.”

James’ mouth explored your neck and torso, finally worshiping your nipples. You wrapped your legs around his hips, hands in his hair and whispering into his ear.

“Bast! I will not break, White Wolf. Claim me. Make me yours!”

Bucky leaned up and wrapped his hand around your throat as he began to honor your request. He was now pounding into you so hard that your body, and you swore the rock beneath you, rippled.

You moaned loudly as pain turned into pleasure and your body started to tremble. Bucky’s display of power over you had your eyes rolling back into your head.

“Thaats it. So fucking beautiful. I’m.. not gonna… fuck I’m gonna…I need you to…”

Bucky’s other hand found your clit and you let out a string of river tribe curses as you exploded around his cock.

“Holy…”

Bucky pumped about three more times and he exploded as well, pulling out in time to leave a string of pearls from your clit to your collarbone as he released all over you. You trembled as his hot spend seemed to sizzle on your sun warmed body. You watched him attempt to empty everything for you and then reached for him, instinctively sitting up to suck the rest out of him. Bucky looked down on you and shuddered, palming your head as you cleaned him off.

He reached down to play in the cum that decorated your body as you lay back on the warm rock. Then, he picked you up and took you back into the river, tenderly cleaning you off while covering you with kisses.

“I am going to meet with T’Challa. I need you to be my wife and have my babies as soon as possible.”

____

You woke up with a start and tears in your eyes, the noise outside coming through the fog in your head as Amsterdam’s red light district.

You felt a deep loss. For your King, your people, your home.. your husband.

Your child.

You slowly sat up from your sleeping bag, and shuffled to the bathroom to clean your face.

As you looked into the mirror, you vowed that you would be back with your husband…as soon as you killed the power broker.

Please reblog to spread the joy!

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barns x dora milaje!reader #bucky barnes and the summer soldier #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes the white wolf #bucky barnes x black!reader #white wolf #bucky barnes in wakanda #bucky barnes x reader #sebastian stan #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan imagine #kinktobermaybe #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes

[the-world-annealing]

An arbitrary element system

(Inspired by @discoursedrome writing this, original post seems to have been deleted so I'm linking to a reblog; also apologies to Samin Nostrat)

SALT: Associated with protection, preservation, and constancy. Marble statues, ramparts, cats, trees, and the priestly/noble classes are all considered strongly salt-aligned. More abstractly, astronomy, architecture and to a lesser extent currency all fall under its purview as well. Salt-aligned characters run the gamut from honorable knights to peaceful gardeners to bronze age god-kings. Its season is winter.

Magic of salt can create create impassable wards, render promises unbreakable, or unleash curses of petrification. It can never be used to separate or destroy, and its more powerful effects often require elaborate sigils to be drawn. Those skilled in salt magic have their lifespan greatly lengthened, and may live for many centuries, but find their minds growing ever more rigid and inflexible.

FAT: Associated with creation, growth, restoration, and foresight (as fat is, by its very nature, a store to be used in the future). Fat is associated with predators (especially birds), craftsmen, and the merchant class, as well as healers, teachers, musicians, and writers. Its season is summer.

Fat magic can grow a house from a splinter of wood, grant its wielder another man's face, twist entrails into the shape of the future, and even revive the dead for a time. However, it is powerless to affect anything that was never alive. Its effects become more potent the longer they are maintained, but doing so drains ever more of the wielder's reserves: many a mage has tried to push past their limits and combusted in flames on the spot.

ACID: Associated with destruction, upheaval, and scarcity. However, acid is also the element of forgiveness, freedom, persistence, and honesty, and governs unlikely alliances and fire-forged bonds. Scavengers and vermin are aligned with acid, as is anyone who falls outside of the conventional social hierarchy: beggars, criminals, outcasts, and ascetics. Its season is autumn.

Acid magic creates can summon hailstorms, spew gouts of burning oil, conjure frightful phantasms or inflict wracking pains. Magic that undoes charms and curses also falls under the element of acid, as does anything that facilitates travel between the planes or calls their denizens here. Acid magic demands components of great rarity; gemstones, powdered dragonscale, the bones of saints. Those who cannot pay a spell's price must suffer its scarring backlash instead, and most senior acid mages are hideous to look upon.

HEAT: Associated with transubstantiation, purification, ambition, and toil. Farmers and unskilled laborers are heat-aligned, but so are smiths, herbalists, glassblowers, and of course alchemists. Herbivorous animals are a manifestation of this element, as are the shoots and grasses they feed upon. Its season is spring.

Heat magic often manipulates energies. Telekinetic effects are heat magic, as are blasts of radiance or bursts of heat. A shield of heat magic may dissipate powerful blows as harmless light, or even reflect the force back onto the attacker. Obviously, heat magic also includes all those magics that turn a substance into another, from turning lead into gold to rusting iron or calling water from rock. Its wielders are forced to specialize ever more: the more powerful an effect one wishes to conjure, the more facets of this magic become permanently unavailable. Thus, the masters of heat magic are those that have found many creative applications for a single spell effect.

#worldbuilding

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

----

Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

#the winter king's ward #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #broken bones #magical healing #painful healing #guilt #manipulative whumper #brainwashing and manipulation #<-it's not like Being Done in this chapter but thorne is. Feeling Some Cognitive Dissonance and he Doesn't Like It #back injury tw #burns tw #referenced noncon

[xanyiaz]

[repost] words i can't see normally anymore bc of redacted audio:

redacted, damn, dump, water/air/fire/earth, freelance, demon, shade, inverse, project, robot, river, summer, winter, pizza, slushies, 7/11, here, dreams, death, walk, invisible, lasko fans, a/c, deviance, voyeur, chorus, mine, hell, core, state, honey, hoodie, hurt, healing, werewolf, vampire, echo, empathy, shift, telepath, cinema, car, balance, fallen, raincloud, department, knit, bridge, freeze, mate, vanilla extract, baking, study, golf, video games, rope, bite, serenity, empathy, sadism, bindings, anthology, after, bro, dude, memory, see, caller, phone, weave, hush, friend, treasure, king, prince, workplace, coworker, amusement park, dear, pet, doctor, ward, baby, menace, any of the nicknames in general actually but still- specifically baby, basically everything at this point (i'm going insane)

tag list <3 (lmk if you'd like to be added or removed !!): @zeerohpunk @copsecore @themeridian @puffin-smoke @vind3miat0r @froggytimemachineinternet @redactedbloop @qhoaaaa @plaqying @ashton-sano @mokozroach @washa @idk-ig-7 @kuteheadrest @solairereject

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redactedverse #redacted fandom #redacted gavin #redacted lasko #redacted damien #redacted huxley #redacted verse #redacted headcanons #redacted vega #redacted carpe deus #redacted the balance #redacted pizza guy #redacted guy #redacted project meridian #redacted sovereign state #redacted hush #redacted sadisms hold #redacted yandere #redacted ivan #redacted shaw pack #redacted david #redacted milo #redacted freelancer #redacted damn crew #redacted asher #redacted sam #redacted vincent #redacted porter

[fluffywings13]

Fearsome King Of Curses and Tiger Cub Ward Headcanons (Part 2)

So going off my last post of this, here's some more for you, because I can't get over Giant OG!Sukuna and tiny Baby Yuuji (not really baby but you know!)

~ Yuuji has abandonment fears due to Life in General. Often times he steals something from Sukuna's chambers or Throne Room so he always has a reason to be come for when there's business the Curse has to attend to that he can't be present for. (He thinks Sukuna doesn't know of his sticky finger habits---Sukuna totally does)

~ Sukuna purposefully leaves important objects within the boy's line of sight and reach before he's dismissed to play or the like when he can't be present, at first he was confused as to why the little imp stole his scarf under it dawned on him.

~ The first time he got into real trouble with Sukuna, like crossed the line far too much to be dealt with by a sharp scolding, little Yuuji was so petrified due to *trauma* he wet himself while sobbing out apology after apology. Then he wailed because he wet himself like a baby and that usually means harsher punishment from his experience.

~ The first few times Yuuji faces actual punishment for misbehaving or disobeying he wets himself out of fear. Sukuna never gets angry at him. He just helps clean him up, still delivers punishment of course, but only after he explains why it's happening and that he'd never do to him what the Villagers did.

~ Sukuna kills all of those who minded his little Tiger Cub before they met because of the fear the instilled in his child. Yuuji doesn't know. He intends to keep it that way.

~ The first time Sukuna comes home covered in blood after ravaging a village for whispers of what they intended to do to the supposed discovery of the King Of Curses one true weakness (Yuuji) he gets scolded by this tiny little six year old for dragging blood inside. (Yuuji doesn't care enough to ask where the blood came from only that it got on the rugs)

~Uraume has witnessed them napping together in various places but always in the same position more times then They can count. Sukuna resting on his back with his little bundle of human cub secure in his four arm embrace. Sometimes Yuuji's thumb is hanging out of his mouth. Only happens when he's really content so they see no reason to put an end to the childlike behavior he should have grown out of.

~ Yuuji likes to say Sukuna's belly mouth smells like feet while putting his little tiny feet in front of it teasingly. He never manages to pull those little things back in time to save them from being nibbled to death by said belly mouth.

~ Yuuji's favorite time of year is Winter because Snow and he likes to play in it.

~ Sukuna's least favorite time of year is Winter because Snow and the brat plays in it even after he's called to return inside where it's warm and always ends up catching a cold because of it.

~ Sick Yuuji is surprisingly docile. He latches on. Snuggles in. And won't allow you to set him down until he decides he wants down. Sukuna never fights him on it. In fact, pulls him closer and bundles him up even more. Child can't be cold while with sickness obviously.

~ Sukuna holds Yuuji seated on the palm of a single one of his hands when taking care of business the child can be privy to.

~ Yuuji personally sees to it that Sukuna's cleaned of all blood when he returns from his 'Yuuji-Less Adventures' and his scolding is only cut off when the massive Curse tugs him into the steaming water with him. Squeals replace the adorable scamps scoldings.

~ The first time Yuuji calls Sukuna 'Chichi' is after a bad night terror that had him soiling his futon and screaming shrill in the deep night. Sukuna melted then and there. (Yuuji sleeps with Sukuna from then on because bad dreams are too scared to haunt the little one when he's there with him--That's what Sukuna says anyway--Yuuji never has another bad dream again.)

#jjk itadori #jjk sukuna #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sukuna #yuji itadori #secretly soft sukuna #soft fluff #jjk headcanons #jjk tickle #parental sukuna #dad sukuna #child itadori #child yuuji

[crystals-cave]

PAC: How will December 2023 be like for you?

Hey Everyone❄️

Welcome to your December 2023 reading🔮

We’re reaching the final month of this year!

For those of you going through winter right now, I hope you stay warm in the upcoming few months⛄️🎄

Pick a pile that sparks a memory in you - it could be a person/place/music/ object etc. If more than 1 pile sparks a memory in you, pick the pile that evokes the strongest emotions in you. However, if you feel strongly for both, you may go ahead and read more than 1 pile.

As this is a general reading, do take what resonates for you and take the rest with a pinch of salt.

Warning: this reading will be blunt and brutally honest. There will be no sugar-coating at all. Do keep it in mind as you proceed with this reading⚠️

Note: all pictures used in this reading are taken by me

Pile 1 | Pile 2

Pile 3 | Pile 4

Pile 1

10 of Swords

9 of Swords (rx)

King of Swords (rx)

The Hierophant

The Tower

Hello Pile 1 🌪️

First of all, I would like to congratulate you — most of you in this pile are about to go through a huge growth this month.

At the start of the month, I see that there is something on your mind hurting you so badly as though it is physical pain. Whatever on your mind haunts you even in your dreams. Your nightmares only stop once you get it off your chest, and whatever it is will be really ugly.

Despite all the hurt and cruelty it might bring, it is necessary to resolve it now than letting it snowball and hitting you back tenfold. The truth, be it good or bad, will always make you feel lighter than the lies that weigh you down.

Once you get it off your chest, things will slowly get better for you. For a great portion of you, I see that mercy is granted for you and you’re eventually forgiven. (Did you do someone/something wrong?) You will be surprised by this forgiveness but this incident in December is here to teach you an important life lesson.

For some, you’ll learn the pain of carrying guilt and lies, and the remaining of you will learn the weight of forgiveness.

Although it will be a rather heavy month for you, I would like to encourage you to stay strong. At times, growth can be casual and slow but other times we learn through mistakes/hardships.

Hang in there 🖤

Pile 2

The Chariot (rx)

8 of Pentacles

Knight of Pentacles (rx)

3 of Wands (rx)

8 of Wands

King of Swords (rx)

Hi Pile 2 🍂

I know that you’ve been really been going though it for some time and things are pretty rough for you. You feel as though things never progress no matter how ward you work, as though everything is at a standstill. You may have thought that things will get better as you work but you just get discouraged everytime.

However, I see that this December will be the end of your stagnancy. What has been stillness before will be so full of activity you can hardly remember what quietness feels like. Everything will be busy.

Despite the change, you should also beware of jealousy. All the buzz that comes alive for you this month also attracts envy. While you can’t control how they feel about your positive change, you can protect yourself by not flaunting it to them. Afterall some people in their twisted way see flaunting as a green light to sabotage/backstab others.

Best wishes 🖤

Pile 3

Strength

Judgement

3 of Pentacles

4 of Cups

2 of Pentacles (rx)

Welcome, Pile 3 🌻

For the earlier half of December, I see that you’re full of action. Even when you’re not on the move, you have this quiet confidence about yourself that people admire. Though I feel that you have always been like that.

As the month progresses, you’ll feel yourself go through a transformation. In the past, you realize that people always try to learn the way you do things — how you dress, how you speak etc. This time, it will be you who will try to learn from others instead. You start to see strengths of others and try to learn from them.

At the start, some of them may be put off and refuse to teach you as they believe you are just humouring them and not taking them seriously. As you show persistance, they will eventually cave and share with you their teachings.

When you realize that there is something to learn from everyone and initiate to connect and learn your peers, you are also starting an important exchange for everyone. I see that this exchange likely happens in a work/school setting and is likely to bring you to even greater heights.

All the best! 🖤

Pile 4

The Moon

The High Priestess (rx)

Judgement (rx)

Knight of Cups

6 of Swords

The Star

Page of Wands (rx)

Hello Pile 4⚡️

Right off the bat, I see that you’ll be troubled for the earlier part of this December. You seem to have hidden foe(s) and have yet to uncover who they are or why they are against you.

It can be quite scary to deal with something like that, but life must still go on. Regardless of what is to come, you still have to carry on with life as per usual.

Around mid-December, there will be an arrival of a messenger to guide your way out of this trouble.

As happy as this ending may sound, this can actually trap you in an endless cycle. The root of the issue stems from your indecisiveness.

Dragging things out and prolonging your decisions will only cause confusion and uncertainty. If you are unsure, read up and consult others. If you still can’t decide, list out all your pros and cons and compare what you have more to gain or lose.

Irregardless of your choice, there will be those who support it and those who are against it. But at least you know of what people are unhappy about. Having a problem to solve is better than sitting ducks and leaving people hanging for an answer.

Stay strong 🖤

#tarot #pick a card #pick a card reading #rider waite tarot #tarot reading #rider waite #divination #pick a picture #pick a pile #PAC #december pick a card #december reading #december #december 2023 #december 2023 reading #december pac #how will december 2023 be like for you? #how will december be like for you?

[yoga-onion]

Legends and myths about trees

Celtic beliefs in trees (18)

T for Tinne (Holly) - July 18th - August 5th

“Tree of Sacrifice - 8th month of the Celtic Tree Calendar (Ref)”

Colour: red; Star: Mars, Saturn: Gemstone: ruby, bloodstone; Gender: male; Patrons: Taranis, Jesus Christ, Thor, Lugh; Symbols: discord + humanity, blood + compassion, endless love

When it comes to holly, there is no one who doesn't know the prickly leaves and red berries. The evergreen holly tree has dense branches, and thanks to its glossy evergreen foliage, the holly tree remains unchanged through over time and throughout the year. 

Since ancient times, holly has represented the robust vitality and masculine strength of nature. It was closely associated with birth and rebirth rituals and the transmission of esoteric knowledge, and was particularly linked with unconditional love, and eventually came to symbolise all gods dedicated to sacrifice. The holly is also known as a tree that protects fairies and, as with all 'fairy trees', legend has it that cutting it down will bring bad luck. People in the past planted holly near their houses because it was said to ward off evil and stop lightning from striking.

It is said that long ago, when the island of Britain was still called Albion, prehistoric Britain was protected by a giant called Gogmagog. This giant who covered his entire body with holly branches and leaves, primeval god Gogmagog, eventually became known by the name 'the Holly King'. The giant held a holly bush as a club and is said to be the twin brother of the 'King of Oak'. In the medieval story 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight', the Holly King appears as the immortal Green Knight and Sir Gawain as the Oak King. 

The Holly King, who rules over the six months leading up to the summer solstice and winter solstice, takes the throne after the Oak King dedicates himself to the summer solstice bonfire. Then, in a cycle of death and rebirth, he sacrifices himself to give way once more to the Oak King on the winter solstice. Hence, Oak King and Holly king represent two phases of nature's guardian deities.

The Celtic festival of Lughnasadh (Lughnasa) takes place at the end of the holly month. This celebrates the rebirth of Lugh, the god of light (the sun) and crafts, and is celebrated on 1 August in the UK, Ireland and Europe at the Harvest Festival. This is also the Anglo-Saxon festival of Lammas.

The evergreen holly, which does not die out even when all plants have died, symbolises a strong life force and is a 'good omen' tree. The druids (Ref2), who regarded holly as a particularly sacred tree, proceeded to bring holly into the house during the winter months. The holly, with its red berries and bright foliage, which exalts the soul, was a protector of elves and fairies from the harsh cold. So, during the winter, they do not misbehave.

Any holly brought into the house must be returned to the outdoors by 'Imbolc Eve'. It's because if holly leaves remain in the house after that, misfortune will befall them.

This was retained in Christianity as Twelfth Night (also known as Epiphany Eve). In Christianity, which teaches that holly eventually grew from the ground on which Jesus walked, the thorny leaves and red berries of holly represent the Passion and shed blood of Jesus.

木にまつわる伝説・神話

ケルト人の樹木の信仰 (18)

TはTinne (ﾋｲﾗｷﾞ) - 7月18日～8月4日

『犠牲の木 〜 ケルトの木の暦（参照）の第8月』

色: 赤; 星: 火星、土星: 宝石: ルビー、ブラッドストーン (血石) ; 性: 男性; 守護神: タラニス、イエス・キリスト、トール、ルー; シンボル: 不和＋人間性、血＋憐れみ、限りなき愛

ヒイラギといえば、棘のある葉と赤い実、知らない人はいないだろう。常緑樹のヒイラギは、びっしりと枝を張り、またつやつやとした常緑の葉のおかげてヒイラギは、時の移ろいにも変わらぬ姿を見せている。

昔からヒイラギは自然のたくましい生命力や男性的な力強さを表してきた。古代では、誕生や再生の儀式、秘伝の伝授などに縁が深いものとされ、とりわけ無償の愛と関係があり、やがて犠牲に捧げられたすべての神々を象徴するようになった。ヒイラギは妖精を守る木としても知られ、「妖精の木」がすべてそうであるように、伐採すると不幸をもたらすという言い伝えがある。昔の人は家の近くにヒイラギを植えていたが、それは魔除けになり、雷が落ちなくなると言われていたからだ。

その昔、ブリテンがまだアルビオンと呼ばれていた頃の、太古のブリテン島はゴグマゴグという巨人が守っていたといわれている。このヒイラギの枝や葉で全身を覆った巨人、太古の神ゴグマゴグはやがて「ヒイラギの王」の名で知られるようになった。その巨人はヒイラギの茂みを棍棒として持ち、「オークの王」の双子の兄弟であるといわれている。中世の物語『ガウェイン卿と緑の騎士』では、ヒイラギの王が不死身の緑の騎士として、ガウェイン卿はオークの王として登場する。夏至かた冬至に至る半年間を治めるヒイラギ王は、オーク王が夏至のかがり火に身を捧げた後、王位につく。そして、死と再生を繰り返すサイクルの中で、冬至の日に、自らを犠牲にしてふたたびオーク王に道を譲る。オーク王とヒイラギ王は自然の守護神の二つの局面を表している。

ヒイラギの月が終わる頃にはケルトの祭典、ルーナサが行われる。これは、光 (太陽) と技芸の神、ルーの再生を祝うもので、英国、アイルランド、ヨーロッパでは、8月1日に収穫祭が開かれる。これはアングロサクソン人のラマス祭にも当たる。

すべての植物が枯れても死に絶えることを知らない常緑樹のヒイラギは屈強な生命力を象徴し、「吉兆」の木でもある。ヒイラギを特に神聖な木として崇めていたドルイド（参照2）は、冬の間はヒイラギを家の中に持ち込むように進めた。赤い実と鮮やかな葉が魂を昂揚させるヒイラギは、厳しい寒さから妖精やエルフを守ってくれる存在だった。だから、冬の間、妖精たちは悪さをしない。家の中に持ち込まれたヒイラギは、「インボルクのイヴ」までには必ず屋外に戻さなければならない。その後にも家の中にヒイラギの葉が残っていると、不幸が訪れるからだ。

これが十二夜（エピファニー・イブとも知られる��としてキリスト教に残された。イエスが歩いた地面からはやがてヒイラギが生えてきたと教えるキリスト教では、ヒイラギの棘のある葉と赤い実は、イエスの受難と流し血を表している。

#trees #tree legend #tree myths #folklore #mythology #legend #celtic belief #holly #celtic calender #holly king #oak king #art #nature #imbolc

[francesminos-tt]

Lucemond a/b/o where omega Lucerys has a bastard son and he is under no illusion to believe the other father would recognize this child. Why would he? Aemond despises Luke for taking his eye, and the only night they lay together is after that dreadful family dinner. This child is not born with love and passion but with bitterness and vengeance.

The year is 134 AC. It’s been 5 years since the harshest winter hit Westeros and brought with it the plague known as the Winter Fever. The plague claimed many lives, men and women, lords and peasants alike, including the former king’s hand, Otto Hightower. History would say the dance of the dragons ends before it can even begin. Ironically, it was the plague that prevented this bloodshed.

Lucerys is lord of the tides for 2 years now, after the sea snake succumbed to the plague. He is also the father of a 5-year-old bastard, Laenor Stone, who was born during an epic blizzard when Lucerys took shelter in his grandmother Aemma’s maiden home. Since then, Laenor Stone lives in the ancient castle of Heart’s Home, which belonged to house corbray.

The citadel just announced the great news that the longest winter since conqueror’s time had finally ended. Luke’s younger brother, Ser Joffrey bears the good news and repeats the Queen’s request for her second-born to return to court.

Spring is coming and there is a grand tourney hold to celebrate the union between Aegon and Jacaerys. The betrothal of the alpha crown prince and the omega “usurper” is written in history as the Great Comprise.

Luke asks for the Queen permission to let Laenor become Jace’s ward. If all plays well, his son could make a fine king’s guard with no lands, no wives and no titles. It’s a suitable position for a bastard. Aemond doesn’t have to know because Luke doesn’t plan to tell him and thank the seven Laenor has brown hair.

Aemond, on the other hand, is man of the past. The alpha is still bitter that his mother, the dowager queen Alicent has to go back to old town after she barely survived from the plague. Helaena volunteered to go with her. It’s all Aegon’s fault that he bent the knee to Rhaenyra shortly after Otto’s death.

No. Aemond was ready to fight if not for Alicent’s sudden illness. He is still ready to fight. And that hateful whore Lucerys dares to put his bastard son under Aegon’s care. It’s like a blow to the face. Aemond would not stand such humiliation.

#aemond x lucerys #lucemond #house of the dragon #omegaverse #abo dynamics

[rowan-post]

m i d w i n t e r t a l e s // f a n t a s y r p m e m e

A holiday themed meme for all your fantasy muses. Add REVERSE for role reversal.

[ KINGS OF HOLLY & OAK ] Sender takes reciever to a midwinter celebration in honour of the Holly King. Once there, reciever and sender get roped into enacting the rebirth of summer by playing the part of each king - Holly and Oak - in a ceremony meant to revitalise the Oak King from his long slumber.

[ CURSE OF THE WINTER WITCH ] Sender is struck in the heart by the witch's ice and reciever tries to thaw them by any means neccesary.

[ THE WILD YULE HUNT ] Reciever attends the Wild Hunt as one of the hunters and sender is (either willingly or not) this year's prey.

[ ETERNAL WINTER'S SONG ] The sender has cast a spell to cloak the land in eternal winter; reciever comes to plead or fight with them in order to undo the spell.

[ BONFIRE WARD ] Sender and reciever have been traversing a deep, dark wood as the clock strikes midnight at midwinter. The veil is at its thinnest, and the undead walk. Now reciever and sender must huddle up and keep watch over their fire through-out the night - for if it's snuffed, untold horrors await.

[ WINTER'S SLUMBER ] Sender is caught in a blizzard and gets sirened and ensorcelled further into the storm by reciever. Sender has just laid down in the snow to let cold take them, when reciever takes pity on them and carries them to safety.

#rp prompt #rp meme #rp community #rp resources #rpc #open starter #supernatural starter #fantasy starter #rp starter #faerypost // memes #winter rp meme #christmas rp meme